MY  LADY   OF  THE 
CHIMNEY-CORNER 


MY  LADY   OF  THE 
CHIMNEY  CORNER 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CARPENTER  AND  HIS  KINGDOM," 
"THE  SOULS  OF  POOR  FOLK,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

W.  B.  FEAKINS,  INC 
1922 


Copyright,  1922  by 
ALEXANDER  IRVINE 


- 


TO 
LADY  GREGORY 

AND 

THE  PLAYERS  OF  THE  ABBEY  THEATRE 
DUBLIN 


FOREWORD 

This  book  is  the  torn  manu 
script  of  the  most  beautiful  life 
I  ever  knew.  I  have  merely 
pieced  and  patched  it  together, 
and  have  not  even  changed  or 
disguised  the  names  of  the  little 
group  of  neighbors  who  lived 
with  us,  at  "the  bottom  of  the 
world."  A.  I. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

i  LOVE  is  ENOUGH 3 

ii  THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER  ...  21 

in  REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 38 

iv  SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 63 

v  His  ARM  is  NOT  SHORTENED  ....  85 

VT  THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON  no 

vii  IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE    .     .     .     .133 

vni  THE  WIND  BLOWETH   WHERE  IT  LISTETH  153 

ix  "  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  TH'  CLOUDS  "  .   171 

x  THE    EMPTY    CORNER 198 


MY  LADY  OF 
THE  CHIMNEY-CORNER 


A  STORY  OF  LOVE  AND  POVERTY  IN 
IRISH  PEASANT  LIFE 


CHAPTER  I 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


NNA'S  purty,  an'  she's  good 
as  well  as  purty,  but  th' 
beauty  an'  goodness  that's 
hers  is  short  lived,  I'  m  think- 
in',"  said  old  Bridget 
McGrady  to  her  neighbor  Mrs.  Tierney,  as 
Mrs.  Gilmore  passed  the  door,  leading  her 
five-year-old  girl,  Anna,  by  the  hand.  The 
old  women  were  sitting  on  the  doorstep  as 
the  worshipers  came  down  the  lane  from 
early  mass  on  a  summer  morning. 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Thrue  for  you,  Bridget,  for  th'  do  say 
that  th'  Virgin  takes  all  sich  childther  be 
fore  they  're  ten." 

"  Musha,  but  Mrs.  Gilmore  '11  take  on 
terrible,"  continued  Mrs.  Tierney,  "  but  th' 
will  of  God  must  be  done." 

Anna  was  dressed  in  a  dainty  pink  dress. 
A  wide  blue  ribbon  kept  her  wealth  of  jet 
black  hair  in  order  as  it  hung  down  her  back 
and  the  squeaking  of  her  little  shoes  drew 
attention  to  the  fact  that  they  were  new  and 
in  the  fashion. 

"  It 's  a  mortal  pity  she  's  a  girl,"  said 
Bridget,  "  bekase  she  might  hev  been  an  al- 
thar  boy  before  she  goes." 

"  Aye,  but  if  she  was  a  bhoy  shure  there  's 
no  tellin'  what  divilmint  she  'd  get  into ;  so 
maybe  it 's  just  as  well." 

The  Gilmores  lived  on  a  small  farm  near 
Crumlin  in  County  Antrim.  They  were  not 
considered  "  well  to  do,"  neither  were  they 
poor.  They  worked  hard  and  by  dint  of 
economy  managed  to  keep  their  children  at 
4 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


school.  Anna  was  a  favorite  child.  Her 
quiet  demeanor  and  gentle  disposition  drew 
to  her  many  considerations  denied  the  rest 
of  the  family.  She  was  a  favorite  in  the 
community.  By  the  old  women  she  was 
considered  "  too  good  to  live " ;  she  took 
"kindly"  to  the  house  of  God.  Her 
teacher  said,  "  Anna  has  a  great  head  for 
learning."  This  expression,  oft  repeated, 
gave  the  Gilmores  an  ambition  to  prepare 
Anna  for  teaching.  Despite  the  schedule 
arranged  for  her  she  was  confirmed  in  the 
parish  chapel  at  the  age  of  ten.  At  fifteen 
she  had  exhausted  the  educational  facilities 
of  the  community  and  set  her  heart  on  in 
stitutions  of  higher  learning  in  the  larger 
cities.  While  her  parents  were  figuring  that 
way  the  boys  of  the  parish  were  figuring  in 
a  different  direction.  Before  Anna  was 
seventeen  there  was  scarcely  a  boy  living 
within  miles  who  had  not  at  one  time  or  an 
other  lingered  around  the  gate  of  the  Gil- 
rriore  garden.  Mrs.  Gilmore  watched  Anna 
5 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

carefully.  She  warned  her  against  the 
danger  of  an  alliance  with  a  boy  of  a  lower 
station.  The  girl  was  devoted  to  the 
Church.  She  knew  her  Book  of  Devotions 
as  few  of  the  older  people  knew  it,  and  be 
fore  she  was  twelve  she  had  read  the  Lives 
of  the  Saints.  None  of  these  things  made 
her  an  ascetic.  She  could  laugh  heartily 
and  had  a  keen  sense  of  humor. 

The  old  women  revised  their  prophecies. 
They  now  spoke  of  her  "  takin'  th'  veil." 
Some  said  she  would  make  "  a  gey  good 
schoolmisthress,"  for  she  was  fond  of  chil 
dren. 

While  waiting  the  completion  of  arrange 
ments  to  continue  her  schooling,  she  helped 
her  mother  with  the  household  work.  She 
spent  a  good  deal  of  her  time,  too,  in  help 
ing  the  old  and  disabled  of  the  village.  She 
carried  water  to  them  from  the  village  well 
and  tidied  up  their  cottages  at  least  once  a 
week. 

The  village  well  was  the  point  of  depart- 
6 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


ure  in  many  a  romance.  There  the  boys 
and  girls  met  several  times  a  day.  Many 
a  boy's  first  act  of  chivalry  was  to  take  the 
girl's  place  under  the  hoop  that  kept  the 
cans  apart  and  carry  home  the  supply  of  wa 
ter. 

Half  a  century  after  the  incident  that 
played  havoc  with  the  dreams  and  visions  of 
which  she  was  the  central  figure,  Anna  said 
to  me: 

"  I  was  fillin'  my  cans  at  th'  well.  He 
was  standin'  there  lukin'  at  me. 

" '  Wud  ye  mind,'  says  he,  '  if  I  helped 
ye?' 

"  '  Deed  no,  not  at  all,'  says  I.  So  he 
filled  my  cans  an'  then  says  he :  "  *  I  would 
give  you  a  nice  wee  cow  if  I  cud  carry  thim 
home  fur  ye.' 

"  '  It's  not  home  I'm  goin','  says  I, '  but  to 
an'  oul  neighbor  who  can't  carry  it  her 
self.' 

"  '  So  much  th'  betther  fur  me,'  says  he, 
an'  off  he  walked  between  the  cans.  At 
7 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Mary  McKinstry's  doore  that  afthernoon 
we  stood  till  the  shadows  began  t'  fall." 

From  the  accounts  rendered,  old  Mary 
did  not  lack  for  water-carriers  for  months 
after  that.  One  evening  Mary  made  tea  for 
the  water-carriers  and  after  tea  she  "  tossed 
th'  cups  "  for  them. 

"  Here 's  two  roads,  dear,"  she  said  to 
Anna,  "  an'  wan  day  ye  '11  haave  t'  choose 
betwixt  thim.  On  wan  road  there  's  love 
an'  clane  teeth  (poverty),  an'  on  t'other 
riches  an'  hell  on  earth." 

"  What  else  do  you  see  on  the  roads, 
Mary?"  Anna  asked. 

"  Plenty  ov  childther  on  th'  road  t'  clane 
teeth,  an'  dogs  an'  cats  on  th'  road  t'  good 
livin'." 

"  What  haave  ye  fur  me,  Mary  ?  "  Jamie 
Irvine,  Anna's  friend,  asked.  She  took  his 
cup,  gave  it  a  shake,  looked  wise  and  said: 
"  Begorra,  I  see  a  big  cup,  me  bhoy  —  it 's 
a  cup  o'  grief  I  'm  thinkin'  it  is." 

"  Oul  Mary  was  jist  bletherin',"  he  said, 
8 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


as  they  walked  down  the  road  in  the  gloam 
ing,  hand  in  hand. 

"  A  cup  of  sorrow  is  n't  so  bad,  Jamie, 
when  there  's  two  to  drink  it,"  Anna  said. 
He  pressed  her  hand  tighter  and  replied : 

"  Aye,  that's  thrue,  fur  then  it 's  only 
half  a  cup." 

Jamie  was  a  shoemaker's  apprentice. 
His  parents  were  very  poor.  The  struggle 
for  existence  left  time  for  nothing  else. 
As  the  children  reached  the  age  of  eight 
or  nine  they  entered  the  struggle.  Jamie 
began  when  he  was  eight.  He  had  never 
spent  a  day  at  school.  His  family  con 
sidered  him  fortunate,  however,  that  he 
could  be  an  apprentice. 

The  cup  that  old  Mary  saw  in  the  tea 
leaves  seemed  something  more  than  "  bleth 
er  "  when  it  was  noised  abroad  that  Anna 
and  Jamie  were  to  be  married. 

The  Gilmores  strenuously  objected. 
They  objected  because  they  had  another 
career  mapped  out  for  Anna.  Jamie  was 
9 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

illiterate,  too,  and  she  was  well  educated. 
He  was  a  Protestant  and  she  an  ardent 
Catholic.  Illiteracy  was  common  enough 
and  might  be  overlooked,  but  a  mixed  mar 
riage  was  unthinkable. 

The  Irvines,  on  the  other  hand,  although 
very  poor,  could  see  nothing  but  disaster  in 
marriage  with  a  Catholic,  even  though  she 
was  as  "  pure  and  beautiful  as  the  Virgin." 

"  It 's  a  shame  an'  a  scandal,"  others  said, 
"  that  a  young  fella  who  can't  read  his  own 
name  shud  marry  sich  a  nice  girl  wi'  sich 
larnin'." 

Jamie  made  some  defense  but  it  was  n't 
convincing. 

"  Does  n't  the  Bible  say  maan  an'  wife 
are  wan?"  he  asked  Mrs.  Gilmore  in  dis 
cussing  the  question  with  her. 

"  Aye." 

"  Well,  when  Anna  an'  me  are  wan  won't 
she  haave  a  thrade  an'  won't  I  haave  an 
education  ?  " 

"  That 's  wan  way  ov  lukin'  at  a  vexed 
10 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


question,  but  you  're  th'  only  wan  that  luks 
at  it  that  way!" 

"There's  two,"  Anna  said.  "That's 
how  I  see  it." 

When  Jamie  became  a  journeyman  shoe 
maker,  the  priest  was  asked  to  perform  the 
marriage  ceremony.  He  refused  and  there 
was  nothing  left  to  do  but  get  a  man  who 
would  give  love  as  big  a  place  as  religion, 
and  they  were  married  by  the  vicar  of  the 
parish  church. 

Not  in  the  memory  of  man  in  that  com 
munity  had  a  wedding  created  so  little  in 
terest  in  one  way  and  so  much  in  another. 
They  were  both  "  turncoats,"  the  people 
said,  and  they  were  shunned  by  both  sides. 
So  they  drank  their  first  big  draft  of  the 
"  cup  o'  grief  "  on  their  wedding-day. 

"  Sufferin'  will  be  yer  portion  in  this 
world,"  Anna's  mother  told  her,  "  an'  in  th' 
world  t'  come  separation  from  yer  maan." 

Anna  kissed  her  mother  and  said: 

"  I  've  made  my  choice,  mother,  I  've 
ii 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

made  it  before  God,  and  as  for  Jamie's 
welfare  in  the  next  world,  I  'm  sure  that 
love  like  his  would  turn  either  Limbo,  Pur 
gatory  or  Hell  into  a  very  nice  place  to  live 
in!" 

A  few  days  after  the  wedding  the  young 
couple  went  out  to  the  four  cross-roads. 
Jamie  stood  his  staff  on  end  and  said: 

"Are  ye  ready,  dear?" 

"  Aye,  I  'm  ready,  but  don't  tip  it  in  the 
direction  of  your  preference !  "  He  was  in 
clined  toward  Dublin,  she  toward  Belfast. 
They  laughed.  Jamie  suddenly  took  his 
hand  from  the  staff  and  it  fell,  neither  to 
ward  Belfast  nor  Dublin,  but  toward  the 
town  of  Antrim,  and  toward  Antrim  they 
set  out  on  foot.  It  was  a  distance  of  less 
than  ten  miles,  but  it  was  the  longest  jour 
ney  she  ever  took  —  and  the  shortest,  for 
she  had  all  the  world  beside  her,  and  so  had 
Jamie.  It  was  in  June,  and  they  had  all 
the  time  there  was.  There  was  no  hurry. 
They  were  as  care-free  as  children  and 

12 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


utilized  their  freedom  in  full.  Between 
Moira  and  Antrim  they  came  to  Willie 
Withero's  stone  pile.  Willie  was  Antrim's 
most  noted  stone-breaker  in  those  days. 
He  was  one  of  the  town's  news  centers. 
At  his  stone-pile  he  got  the  news  going  and 
coming.  He  was  a  strange  mixture  of 
philosophy  and  cynicism.  He  had  a  rough 
exterior  and  spoke  in  short,  curt,  snappish 
sentences,  but  behind  it  all  he  had  a  big 
heart  full  of  kindly  human  feeling. 

"  Anthrim  's  a  purty  good  place  fur  pigs 
an'  sich  to  live  in,"  he  told  the  travelers. 
"  Ye  see,  pigs  is  naither  Fenians  nor 
Orangemen.  I  get  along  purty  well  m'self 
bekase  I  sit  on  both  sides  ov  th'  fence  at  th' 
same  time." 

"  How  do  you  do  it,  Misther  With- 
ero  ?  "  Anna  asked  demurely. 

"  Don't  call  me  '  Misther,'  "  Willie  said ; 

"  only  quality  calls  me  '  Misther  '  an'  I  don't 

like    it  —  it    does  n't    fit    an    honest    stone 

breaker."     The  question  was  repeated  and 

13 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

he  said :  "  I  wear  a  green  ribbon  on  Path- 
rick's  Day  an'  an  orange  cockade  on  th' 
Twelfth  ov  July,  an'  if  th'  ax  m'  why,  I  tell 
thim  t'  go  t'  h— 1 !  That 's  Withero  fur  ye 
an'  wan  ov  'im  is  enough  fur  Anthrim, 
that 's  why  I  niver  married,  an'  that  '11  save 
ye  the  throuble  ov  axin'  me  whither  I  've  got 
a  wife  or  no!  '•' 

"What  church  d'ye  attend,  Willie?" 
Jamie  asked. 

"Church  is  it,  ye 're  axin'  about?  Luk 
here,  me  bhoy,  step  over  th'  stile."  Willie 
led  the  way  over  into  the  field. 

"  Step  over  here,  me  girl."  Anna  fol 
lowed.  A  few  yards  from  the  hedge  there 
was  an  ant-hill. 

"  See  thim  ants?" 

"  Aye." 

"  Now  if  Withero  thought  thim  ants 
hated  aych  other  like  th'  men  ov  Anthrim 
d  'ye  know  what  I  'd  do  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  I  'd  pour  a  kittle  oy  boilin'  wather  on 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


thim  an'  roast  th'  hides  off  ivery  mother's 
son  ov  thim.  Aye,  that 's  what  I  'd  do, 
shure  as  gun  's  iron !  " 

"  That  would  be  a  sure  and  speedy  cure," 
Anna  said,  smiling. 

"  What's  this  world  but  an  ant-hill  ?  "  he 
asked.  "  Jist  a  big  ant-hill  an'  we  're  ants 
begorra  an'  uncles,  but  instead  ov  workin' 
like  these  wee  fellas  do  —  help  aych  other 
an'  shouldther  aych  other's  burdens,  an' 
build  up  th'  town,  an'  forage  fur  fodder, 
begobs  we  cut  aych  other's  throats  over  th' 
color  ov  ribbon  or  th'  kind  ov  a  church 
we  attind !  Ugh,  what  balderdash  !  " 

The  stone-breaker  dropped  on  his  knees 
beside  the  ant-hill  and  eyed  the  manoeuver- 
ing  of  the  ants. 

"  Luk  here !  "  he  said. 

They  looked  in  the  direction  of  his 
pointed  finger  and  observed  an  ant  drag 
ging  a  dead  fly  over  the  hill. 

"  Jist  watch  that  wee  fella ! "  They 
watched.  The  ant  had  a  big  job,  but  it 

15 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

pulled  and  pushed  the  big  awkward  car 
cass  over  the  side  of  the  hill.  A  second  ant 
came  along,  sized  up  the  situation,  and  took 
a  hand.  "Ha,  ha!"  he  chortled,  "that's 
th'  ticket,  now  kape  yez  eye  on  him !  " 

The  ants  dragged  the  fly  over  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  stuffed  it  down  a  hole. 

"  Now,"  said  Withero,  "  if  a  fella  in  An- 
thrim  wanted  a  han'  th'  other  fellah  wud 
say :  '  Where  d  'ye  hing  yer  hat  up  on  Sun 
day  ?  '  or  some  other  sich  fool  question !  " 

"  He  wud  that." 

"  Now  mind  ye,  I  'm  not  huffed  at  th' 
churches,  aither  Orange  or  Green,  or  th' 
praychers  aither  —  tho  'pon  m'  sowl  ivery 
time  I  luk  at  wan  o'  thim  I  think  ov  God 
as  a  first  class  journeyman  tailor!  But  I 
get  more  good  switherin'  over  an  ant-hill 
than  whin  wan  o'  thim  wee  praychers  thry 
t'  make  me  feel  as  miserable  as  th'  divil ! " 

"  There  's  somethin'  in  that,"  Jamie  said. 

"Aye,  ye  kin  bate  a  pair  ov  oul  boots 
there  is ! " 

16 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


"What  will  th'  ants  do  wi'  th'  fly?" 
Jamie  asked. 

"  Huh !  "  he  grunted  with  an  air  of  au 
thority,  "  they  '11  haave  rump  steaks  fur  tay 
and  fly  broth  fur  breakvist  th'  morra ! " 

"  Th'  don't  need  praychers  down  there, 
do  th',  Willie?" 

"Don't  need  thim  up  here!"  he  said. 
"  They  're  sign-boards  t'  point  th'  way  that 
iverybody  knows  as  well  as  th'  nose  on  his 
face!" 

"  Good-by,"  Anna  said,  as  they  prepared 
to  leave. 

"  Good-by,  an'  God  save  ye  both  kindly," 
were  Willie's  parting  words.  He  adjusted 
the  wire  protectors  to  his  eyes  and  the  so- 
journers  went  on  down  the  road. 

They  found  a  mossy  bank  and  unpacked 
their  dinner. 

"  Quare,  isn't  he?"  Jamie  said. 

"  He  has  more  sense  than  any  of  our 
people." 

"  That 's     no    compliment    t'     Withero, 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Anna,  but  I  was  jist  thinkin'  about 
our  case ;  we  've  got  t'  decide  somethin' 
an'  we  might  as  well  decide  it  here  as  aany- 
where." 

"About  religion,  Jamie?" 

"  Aye." 

"  I  Ve  decided." 

"When?" 

"  At  the  ant-hill." 

"Ye  cud  n't  be  Withero?" 

"  No,  dear,  Willie  sees  only  half  th' 
world.  There 's  love  in  it  that 's  bigger 
than  color  of  ribbon  or  creed  of  church. 
We've  proven  that,,  Jamie,  haven't  we?" 

"  But  what  haave  ye  decided  ?  " 

"  That  love  is  bigger  than  religion.  That 
two  things  are  sure.  One  is  love  of  God. 
He  loves  all  His  children  and  gets  huffed  at 
none.  The  other  is  that  the  love  we  have 
for  each  other  is  of  the  same  warp  and 
woof  as  His  for  us,  and  love  is  enough, 
Jamie." 

"  Aye,  love  is  shure  enough  an'  enough  's 
18 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH 


as  good  as  a  faste,  but  what  about  childther 
if  th'  come,  Anna?" 

"  We  don't  cross  a  stile  till  we  come  to 
it,  do  we?" 

"  That 's  right,  that 's  right,  acushla ;  now 
we  're  as  rich  as  lords,  are  n't  we,  but  I  'm 
th'  richest,  am  n't  I  ?  I  've  got  you  an' 
you  've  only  got  me." 

"  I  've  got  book  learning,  but  you  've  got 
love  and  a  trade,  what  more  do  I  want? 
You  Ve  got  more  love  than  any  man  that 
ever  wooed  a  woman  —  so  I  'm  richer, 
am  n't  I?" 

"  Oh,  God,"  Jamie  said,  "  but  is  n't  this 
th'  lovely  world,  eh,  Anna  ?  " 

Within  a  mile  of  Antrim  they  saw  a  cot 
tage,  perched  on  a  high  bluff  by  the  road 
side.  It  was  reached  by  stone  steps.  They 
climbed  the  steps  to  ask  for  a  drink  of 
water.  They  were  kindly  received.  The 
owner  was  a  follower  of  Wesley  and  his 
conversation  at  the  well  was  in  sharp  conj 
trast  to  the  philosophy  at  the  stone-pile. 
19 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The  young  journeyman  and  his  wife  were 
profoundly  impressed  with  the  place.  The 
stone  cottage  was  vine-clad.  There  were 
beautiful  trees  and  a  garden.  The  June 
flowers  were  in  bloom  and  a  cow  grazed  in 
the  pasture  near  by. 

"  Some  day  we  '11  haave  a  home  like 
this,"  Jamie  said  as  they  descended  the 
steps.  Anna  named  it  "  The  Mount  of 
Temptation,"  for  it  was  the  nearest  she  had 
ever  been  to  the  sin  of  envy.  A  one-armed 
Crimean  pensioner  named  Steele  occupied 
it  during  my  youth.  It  could  be  seen  from 
Pogue's  entry  and  Anna  used  to  point  it 
out  and  tell  the  story  of  that  memorable 
journey.  In  days  when  clouds  were  heavy 
and  low  and  the  gaunt  wolf  stood  at  the 
door  she  would  say:  "Do  you  mind  the 
journey  to  Antrim,  Jamie?" 

"  Aye,"  he  would  say  with  a  sigh,  "  an' 
we  've  been  in  love  ever  since,  have  n't 
we,  Anna?  " 


20 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 


OR  a  year  after  their  arrival 
in  Antrim  they  lived  in  the 
home  of  the  master-shoe 
maker  for  whom  Jamie 
worked  as  journeyman.  It 
was  a  great  hardship,  for  there  was  no  pri 
vacy  and  their  daily  walk  and  conversa 
tion,  in  front  of  strangers,  was  of  the  "  yea, 
yea  "  and  "  nay,  nay  "  order.  In  the  sum 
mer  time  they  spent  their  Sundays  on  the 
banks  of  Lough  Neagh,  taking  whatever 
food  they  needed  and  cooking  it  on  the  sand. 
They  continued  their  courting  in  that  way. 
They  watched  the  water-fowl  on  the  great 
wide  marsh,  they  waded  in  the  water  and 
played  as  children  play.  In  more  serious 
moods  she  read  to  him  Moore's  poems  and 
went  over  the  later  lessons  of  her  school 
21 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

life.  Even  with  but  part  of  a  day  in  each 
week  together  they  were  very  happy.  The 
world  was  full  of  sunshine  for  them  then. 
There  were  no  clouds,  no  regrets,  no  fears. 
It  was  a  period  —  a  brief  period  —  that  for 
the  rest  of  their  lives  they  looked  back  upon 
as  a  time  when  they  really  lived.  I  am  not 
sure,  but  I  am  of  the  impression  that  the 
chief  reason  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
visit  the  Lough  in  later  life  was  because  she 
wanted  to  remember  it  as  she  had  seen  it 
in  that  first  year  of  their  married  life. 

Their  first  child  was  two  years  of  age 
when  the  famine  came  —  the  famine  that 
swept  over  Ireland  like  a  plague,  leaving  in 
its  wake  over  a  million  new-made  graves. 
They  had  been  in  their  own  house  for  over 
a  year.  It  was  scantily  furnished,  but  it 
was  home.  As  the  ravages  of  the  famine 
spread,  nearly  every  family  in  the  town 
mourned  the  absence  of  some  member. 
Men  and  women  met  on  the  street  one  day 
were  gone  the  next.  Jamie  put  his  bench 

22 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

to  one  side  and  sought  work  at  anything  he 
could  get  to  do.  Prices  ran  up  beyond  the 
possibilities  of  the  poor.  The  potato  crop 
only  failed.  The  other  crops  were  reaped 
and  the  proceeds  sent  to  England  as  rent 
and  interest,  and  the  reapers  having  sent  the 
last  farthing,  lay  down  with  their  wives  and 
children  and  died.  Of  the  million  who  died 
four  hundred  thousand  were  able-bodied 
men.  The  wolf  stood  at  every  door.  The 
carpenter  alone  was  busy.  Of  course  it 
was  the  poor  who  died  —  the  poor  only.  In 
her  three  years  of  married  life  Anna  real 
ized  in  a  measure  that  the  future  held  little 
change  for  her  or  her  husband,  but  she 
saw  a  ray  of  hope  for  the  boy  in  the  cradle. 
When  the  foodless  days  came  and  the  child 
was  not  getting  food  enough  to  survive,  she 
gave  vent  to  her  feelings  of  despair.  Jamie 
did  not  quite  understand  when  she  spoke 
of  the  death  of  hope. 

"  Spake  what 's  in  yer  heart  plainly,  An 
na  ! "  he  said  plaintively. 

23 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Jamie,  we  must  not  blame  each  other 
for  anything,  but  we  must  face  the  fact  - 
we  live  at  the  bottom  of  the  world  where 
every  hope  has  a  headstone  —  a  headstone 
that  only  waits  for  the  name." 

"  Aye,  dear,  God  help  us,  I  know,  I  know 
what  ye  mane." 

"  Above  and  beyond  us,"  she  continued, 
"there  is  a  world  of  nice  things  —  books, 
furniture,  pictures  —  a  world  where  people 
and  things  can  be  kept  clean,  but  it 's  a  world 
we  could  never  reach.  But  I  had  hope  " — 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  was 
silent. 

"  Aye,  aye,  acushla,  I  know  yer  hope  's  in 
the  boy,  but  don't  give  up.  We  '11  fight  it 
out  together  if  th'  worst  conies  to  th'  worst. 
The  boy  '11  live,  shure  he  will !  " 

He  could  not  bear  the  agony  on  her  face. 
It  distracted  him.  He  went  out  and  sought 
solitude  on  a  pile  of  stones  back  of  the 
house.  There  was  no  solitude  there,  nor 
could  he  have  remained  long  if  there  had 
24 


been.  He  returned  and  drawing  a  stool 
up  close  beside  her  he  sat  down  and  put  an 
arm  tenderly  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Cheer  up,  wee  girl,"  he  said,  "  our 
ship  's  comin'  in  soon." 

"If  we  can  only  save  him!"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  cradle. 

"  Well,  we  won't  cry  over  spilt  milk,  dear 
—  not  at  laste  until  it 's  spilt." 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  had  such  hopes 
for  him!" 

"  Aye,  so  haave  I,  but  thin  again  I  've 
thought  t'  myself,  suppose  th'  wee  fella  did 
get  t'  be  kind-a  quality  like,  wud  n't  he  be 
ashamed  ov  me  an'  you  maybe,  an'  shure  an 
ingrate  that 's  somethin'  is  worse  than  noth- 
in' !  " 

"  A  child  born  in  pure  love  could  n't  be 
an  ingrate,  Jamie ;  that  is  n't  possible,  dear." 

"  Ah,  who  knows  what  a  chile  will  be, 
Anna?" 

The  child  awoke  and  began  to  cry.  It 
was  a  cry  for  food.  There  was  nothing  in 

25 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the  house;  there  had  been  nothing  all  that 
day.  They  looked  at  each  other.  Jamie 
turned  away  his  face.  He  arose  and  left 
the  house.  He  went  aimlessly  down  the 
street  wondering  where  he  should  try  for 
something  to  eat  for  the  child.  There  were 
several  old  friends  whom  he  supposed  were 
in  the  same  predicament,  but  to  whom  he 
had  not  appealed.  It  was  getting  to  be  an 
old  story.  A  score  of  as  good  children  as 
his  had  been  buried.  Everybody  was  po 
lite,  full  of  sympathy,  but  the  child  was  los 
ing  his  vitality,  so  was  the  mother.  Some 
thing  desperate  must  be  done  and  done  at 
once.  For  the  third  time  he  importuned 
a  grocer  at  whose  shop  he  had  spent  much 
money.  The  grocer  was  just  putting  up  the 
window  shutters  for  the  night. 

"If  ye  cud  jist  spare  us  a  ha'p'orth  ov 
milk  to  keep  th'  life  in  th'  chile  fur  th' 
night?  "  he  pleaded. 

"  It  wud  n't  be  a  thimbleful  if  I  had  it, 
Jamie,  but  I  have  n't  —  we  haave  childther 
26 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

ov   our   own,   ye   know,   an'   life   is   life!" 

"  Aye,  aye,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  I  know," 
and  shuffled  out  again.  Back  to  the  house 
he  went.  He  lifted  the  latch  gently  and 
tiptoed  in.  Anna  was  rocking  the  child  to 
sleep.  He  went  softly  to  the  table  and 
took  up  a  tin  can  and  turned  again  toward 
the  door. 

Anna  divined  his  stealthy  movement. 
She  was  beside  him  in  an  instant. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Jamie?"  He 
hesitated.  She  forced  an  answer. 

"  Jamie,"  she  said  in  a  tone  new  to  her, 
"  there  's  been  nothing  but  truth  and  love 
between  us;  I  must  know." 

"  I  'm  goin'  out  wi'  that  can  to  get  some- 
thin'  fur  that  chile,  Anna,  if  I  haave  t' 
swing  fur  it.  That 's  what 's  in  my  mind 
an'  God  help  me !  " 

"  God  help  us  both,"  she  said. 

He  moved  toward  the  street.  She 
planted  herself  between  him  and  the  door. 

"  No,  we  must  stand  together.  They  '11 
27 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

put  you  in  jail  and  then  the  child  and  I  will 
die  anyway.     Let 's  wait  another  day !  " 

They  sat  down  together  in  the  corner. 
It  was  dark  now  and  they  had  no  candle. 
The  last  handful  of  turf  was  on  the  fire. 
They  watched  the  sparks  play  and  the  fitful 
spurts  of  flame  light  up  for  an  instant  at  a 
time  the  darkened  home.  It  was  a  picture 
of  despair  —  the  first  of  a  long  series  that 
ran  down  the  years  with  them.  They  sat 
in  silence  for  a  long  time.  Then  they  whis 
pered  to  each  other  with  many  a  break  the 
words  they  had  spoken  in  what  now  seemed 
to  them  the  long  ago.  The  fire  died  out. 
They  retired,  but  not  to  sleep.  They  were 
too  hungry.  There  was  an  insatiable  gnaw 
ing  at  their  vitals  that  made  sleep  impossi 
ble.  It  was  like  a  cancer  with  excruciating 
pain  added.  Sheer  exhaustion  only,  stilled 
the  cries  of  the  starving  child.  There  were 
no  more  tears  in  their  eyes,  but  anguish 
has  by-valves  more  keen,  poignant  and  sub 
tle. 

28 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

In  agony  they  lay  in  silence  and  counted 
time  by  the  repercussion  of  pain  until  the 
welcome  dawn  came  with  its  new  supply  of 
hope.  The  scream  of  a  frenzied  mother 
who  had  lost  a  child  in  the  night  was  the 
prelude  to  a  tragic  day.  Anna  dressed 
quickly  and  in  a  few  minutes  stood  by  the 
side  of  the  woman.  There  was  nothing  to 
say.  Nothing  to  do.  It  was  her  turn.  It 
would  be  Anna's  next.  All  over  the  town 
the  specter  hovered.  Every  day  the  reaper 
garnered  a  new  harvest  of  human  sheaves. 
Every  day  the  wolf  barked.  Every  day  the 
carpenter  came. 

When  Anna  returned  Jamie  had  gone. 
She  took  her  station  by  the  child.  Jamie 
took  the  tin  can  and  went  out  along  the 
Gray-stone  road  for  about  a  mile  and  en 
tered  a  pasture  where  three  cows  were  graz 
ing.  He  was  weak  and  nervous.  His  eyes 
were  bloodshot  and  his  hands  trembled.  He 
had  never  milked  a  cow.  He  had  no  idea 
of  the  difficulty  involved  in  catching  a  cow 
29 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

and  milking  her  in  a  pasture.  There  was 
the  milk  and  yonder  his  child,  who  without 
it  would  not  survive  the  day.  Desperation 
dominated  and  directed  every  movement. 

The  cows  walked  away  as  he  approached. 
He  followed.  He  drove  them  into  a  corner 
of  the  field  and  managed  to  get  his  hand  on 
one.  He  tried  to  pet  her,  but  the  jingling 
of  the  can  frightened  her  and  off  they  went 
—  all  of  them  —  on  a  fast  trot  along  the 
side  of  the  field.  He  became  cautious  as 
he  cornered  them  a  second  time.  This  time 
he  succeeded  in  reaching  an  udder.  He  got 
a  tit  in  his  hand.  He  lowered  himself  to 
his  haunches  and  proceeded  to  tug  vigor 
ously.  His  hand  was  waxy  and  stuck  as  if 
glued  to  the  flesh.  Before  there  was  any 
sign  of  milk  the  cow  gave  him  a  swift  kick 
that  sent  him  flat  on  his  back.  By  the  time 
he  pulled  himself  together  again  the  cows 
were  galloping  to  the  other  end  of  the  pas 
ture. 

"  God ! "  he  muttered  as  he  mopped  the 
30 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

sweat  from  his  face  with  his  sleeve,  "  if 
ye  've  got  aany  pity  or  kindly  f eelin'  giv  me 
a  sup  ov  that  milk  fur  m'  chile!  Come 
on!" 

His  legs  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
stand.  Again  he  approached.  The  cows 
eyed  him  with  sullen  concern.  They  were 
thoroughly  scared  now  and  he  could  n't  get 
near  enough  to  lay  a  hand  on  any  of  them. 
He  stood  in  despair,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot.  He  realized  that  what  he  would 
do  he  must  do  quickly. 

The  morning1  had  swift  wings  —  it  was 
flying  away.  Some  one  would  be  out  for 
the  cows  ere  long  and  his  last  chance  would 
be  gone.  He  dropped  the  can  and  ran  to 
the  farm-house.  There  was  a  stack-yard  in 
the  rear.  He  entered  and  took  a  rope  from 
a  stack.  It  was  a  long  rope  —  too  long  for 
his  use,  but  he  did  not  want  to  destroy  its 
usefulness.  He  dragged  it  through  the 
hedge  after  him.  This  time  with  care  and 
caution  he  got  near  enough  to  throw  the 
31 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

rope  over  the  horns  of  a  cow.  Leading 
her  to  a  fence  he  tied  her  to  it  and  began 
again.  It  came  slowly.  His  strength  was 
almost  gone.  He  went  from  one  side  to 
the  other  —  now  at  one  tit,  now  at  another. 
From  his  haunches  he  went  to  his  knees 
and  from  that  position  he  stretched  out  his 
legs  and  sat  flat  on  the  grass.  He  no 
sooner  had  a  good  position  than  the  cow 
would  change  hers.  She  trampled  on  his 
legs  and  swerved  from  side  to  side,  but  he 
held  on.  It  was  a  life  and  death  struggle. 
The  little  milk  at  the  bottom  of  the  can 
gave  him  strength  and  courage.  As  he 
literally  pulled  it  out  of  her  his  strength  in 
creased.  When  the  can  was  half  full  he 
turned  the  cow  loose  and  made  for  the  gap 
in  the  hedge.  Within  a  yard  of  it  he  heard 
the  loud  report  of  a  gun  and  the  can  dropped 
to  the  ground.  The  ball  had  plowed 
through  both  lugs  of  the  can  disconnecting 
the  wire  handle.  Not  much  of  the  milk 
was  lost.  He  picked  up  the  can  and 
32 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

started  down  the  road  as  fast  as  his  legs 
could  take  him.  He  had  only  gone  a  hun 
dred  yards  when  a  man  stepped  out  into  the 
road  and  leveled  a  gun  at  him. 

"  Another  yard  an'  I  '11  blow  yer  brains 
out !  "  the  man  said. 

"Is  this  yer  milk?"  Jamie  asked. 

"  Aye,  an'  well  ye  know  it 's  m'  milk !  " 

Jamie  put  the  can  down  on  the  road  and 
stood  silent.  The  farmer  delivered  himself 
of  a  volume  of  profane  abuse.  Jamie  did 
not  reply.  He  stood  with  his  head  bowed 
and  to  all  appearances  in  a  mood  of  peni 
tence. 

When  the  man  finished  his  threats  and 
abuse  he  stooped  to  pick  up  the  can.  Be 
fore  his  hand  touched  it  Jamie  sprang  at 
him  with  the  ferocity  of  a  panther.  There 
was  a  life  and  death  tussle  for  a  few  sec 
onds  and  both  men  went  down  on  the  road 
—  Jamie  on  top.  Sitting  on  the  man's 
chest  he  took  a  wrist  in  each  hand  and 
pinned  him  to  the  ground. 

33 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Ye  think  I  'm  a  thief/'  he  said  to  the 
man  as  he  looked  at  him  with  eyes  that 
burned  like  live  coals.  "  I  'm  not,  I  'm  an 
honest  maan,  but  I  haave  a  chile  dying  wi' 

hunger  —  now  it 's  your  life  or  his,  by 

an'  ye '11  decide!" 

"  I  think  yer  a  liar  as  well  as  a  thief,"  the 
man  said,  "  but  if  we  can  prove  what  ye  say 
I'm  yer  friend." 

"Will  ye  go  with  me?" 

"  Aye." 

"D'ye  mane  it?" 

"Aye,  I  do!" 

"  I  '11  carry  th'  gun." 

"  Ye  may,  there  's  nothin'  in  it." 

"  There  's  enough  in  th'  butt  t'  batther  a 
maan's  brains  out." 

Jamie  seized  the  gun  and  the  can  and 
the  man  got  up. 

They  walked  down  the  road  in  silence, 
each  watching  the  other  out  of  the  corners 
of  his  eyes. 

"  D  'ye  believe  in  God?  "  Jamie  asked  ab- 
34 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

ruptly.  The  farmer  hesitated  before  an 
swering. 

"Why  d'ye  ask?" 

"  I  'd  like  t'  see  a  maan  in  these  times 
that  believed  wi'  his  heart  insted  ov  his 
mouth ! " 

"  Wud  he  let  other  people  milk  his 
cows  ?  "  asked  the  man,  sneeringly. 

"  He  might  n't  haave  cows  t'  milk,"  Ja 
mie  said.  "  But  he  'd  be  kind  and  not  a 
glutton ! " 

They  arrived  at  the  house.  The  man 
went  in  first.  He  stopped  near  the  door 
and  Jamie  instinctively  and  in  fear  shot  past 
him.  What  he  saw  dazed  him.  "  Ah, 
God !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She  's  dead !  " 

Anna  lay  on  her  back  on  the  floor  and 
the  boy  was  asleep  by  the  hearth  with  his 
head  in  the  ashes.  The  neighbors  were 
alarmed  and  came  to  assist.  The  farmer 
felt  Anna's  pulse.  It  was  feebly  flutter 
ing. 

"  She 's  not  dead,"  he  said.  "  Get  some 
35 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

cold  wather  quickly ! "  They  dashed  the 
water  in  her  face  and  brought  her  back  to 
consciousness.  When  she  looked  around 
she  said: 

"  Who  's  this  kind  man  come  in  to  help, 
Jamie?" 

"  He  's  a  farmer,"  Jamie  said,  "  an'  he  's 
brot  ye  a  pint  ov  nice  fresh  milk!"  The 
man  had  rilled  a  cup  with  milk  and  put  it  to 
Anna's  lips.  She  refused.  "  He 's  dy 
ing,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  boy,  who  lay 
limp  on  the  lap  of  a  neighbor.  The  child 
was  drowsy  and  listless.  They  gave  him 
the  cup  of  milk.  He  had  scarcely  enough 
strength  to  drink.  Anna  drank  what  was 
left,  which  was  very  little. 

"  God  bless  you !  "  Anna  said  as  she  held 
out  her  hand  to  the  farmer. 

"  God  save  you  kindly,"  he  answered  as 
he  took  -her  hand  and  bowed  his  head. 

"  I  Ve  a  wife  an'  wains  myself,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  but  we  're  not  s'  bad  off  on  a 
36 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  CARPENTER 

farm."  Turning  to  Jamie  he  said :  "  Yer 
a  Protestant!" 

"  Aye." 

"  An'  I'm  a  Fenian,  but  we  're  in  t' 
face  ov  bigger  things !  " 

He  extended  his  hand.  Jamie  clasped 
it,  the  men  looked  into  each  other's  faces 
and  understood. 

That  night  in  the  dusk,  the  Fenian 
farmer  brought  a  sack  of  potatoes  and  a 
quart  of  fresh  milk  and  the  spark  of  life 
was  prolonged. 


37 


CHAPTER  III 
REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

AMINE  not  only  carried  off 
a  million  of  the  living,  but 
it  claimed  also  the  unborn. 
Anna's  second  child  was 
born  a  few  months  after  the 
siege  was  broken,  but  the  child  had  been 
starved  in  its  mother's  womb  and  lived 
only  three  months.  There  was  no  wake. 
Wakes  are  for  older  people.  There  were 
no  candles  to  burn,  no  extra  sheet  to  put 
over  the  old  dresser,  and  no  clock  to  stop  at 
the  moment  of  death. 

The  little  wasted  thing  lay  in  its  un 
dressed  pine  coffin  on  the  table  and  the 
neighbors  came  in  and  had  a  look.  Cus 
tom  said  it  should  be  kept  the  allotted  time 
and  the  tyrant  was  obeyed.  A  dozen  of 
those  to  whom  a  wake  was  a  means  of 
38 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

change  and  recreation  came  late  and 
planted  themselves  for  the  night. 

"  Ye  did  n't  haave  a  hard  time  wi'  th' 
second,  did  ye,  Anna?"  asked  Mrs.  Mul- 
holland. 

"  No,"  Anna  said  quietly. 

"Th'  hard  times  play'd  th'  divil  wi'  it 
before  it  was  born,  I  '11  be  bound,"  said  a 
second. 

A  third  averred  that  the  child  was  "  the 
very  spit  out  of  its  father's  mouth."  Ghost 
stories,  stories  of  the  famine,  of  hard  luck, 
of  hunger,  of  pain  and  the  thousand  and 
one  aspects  of  social  and  personal  sorrow 
had  the  changes  rung  on  them. 

Anna  sat  in  the  corner.  She  had  to 
listen,  she  had  to  answer  when  directly  ad 
dressed  and  the  prevailing  idea  of  polite 
ness  made  her  the  center  of  every  story  and 
the  object  of  every  moral ! 

The  refreshments  were  all  distributed 
and  diplomatically  the  mourners  were  in 
formed  that  there  was  nothing  more; 

39 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nevertheless  they  stayed  on  and  on.  Nerve- 
racked  and  unstrung,  Anna  staggered  to 
her  feet  and  took  Jamie  to  the  door. 

"  I  '11  go  mad,  dear,  if  I  have  to  stand  it 
all  night!" 

They  dared  not  be  discourteous.  A  rep 
utation  for  heartlessness  would  have  fol 
lowed  Anna  to  the  grave  if  she  had  gone  to 
bed  while  the  dead  child  lay  there. 

Withero  had  been  at  old  William  Far- 
ren's  wake  and  was  going  home  when  he 
saw  Anna  and  Jamie  at  the  door.  They 
explained  the  situation. 

"  Take  a  dandther  down  toward  th' 
church,"  he  said,  "  an'  then  come  back." 

Willie  entered  the  house  in  an  apparently 
breathless  condition. 

"  Yer  takin'  it  purty  aisy  here,"  he  said, 
"  whin  '  Jowler  '  Hainey  's  killin'  his  wife 
an'  wreckin'  th'  house !  " 

In  about  two  minutes  he  was  alone.  He 
put  a  coal  in  his  pipe  and  smoked  for  a 
minute.  Then  he  went  over  to  the  little 
40 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

coffin.  He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
laid  it  on  the  mantel-shelf  and  returned. 
The  little  hands  were  folded.  He  un 
clasped  them,  took  one  of  them  in  his  rough 
calloused  palm. 

"  Poore  wee  thing,"  he  said  in  an  under 
tone,  "  poore  wee  thing."  He  put  the 
hands  as  he  found  them.  Still  looking  at 
the  little  baby  face  he  added: 

"  Heigho,  heigho,  it 's  bad,  purty  bad,  but 
it 's  worse  where  there  is  n't  even  a  dead 
wan!" 

When  Anna  returned  she  lay  down  on 
her  bed,  dressed  as  she  was,  and  Jamie  and 
Withero  kept  the  vigil  —  with  the  door 
barred.  Next  morning  at  the  earliest  re 
spectable  hour  Withero  carried  the  little 
coffin  under  his  arm  and  Jamie  walked  be 
side  him  to  the  graveyard. 

During  the  fifteen  years  that  followed  the 
burial  of  "  the  famine  child  "  they  buried 
three  others  and  saved  three  —  four  living 
and  four  dead. 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

I  was  the  ninth  child.  Anna  gave  me  a 
Greek  name  which  means  "  Helper  of 
men." 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  in  Scott's  en 
try,  they  moved  to  Pogue's  entry.  The 
stone  cabin  was  thatch-covered  and  meas 
ured  about  twelve  by  sixteen  feet.  The 
space  comprised  three  apartments.  One,  a 
bedroom;  over  the  bedroom  and  beneath 
the  thatch  a  little  loft  that  served  as  a  bed 
room  to  those  of  climbing  age.  The  rest 
of  it  was  workshop,  dining-room,  sitting- 
room,  parlor  and  general  community  news 
center.  The  old  folks  slept  in  a  bed,  the 
rest  of  us  slept  on  the  floor  and  beneath 
the  thatch.  Between  the  bedroom  door  and 
the  open  fireplace  was  the  chimney-corner. 
Near  the  door  stood  an  old  pine  table  and 
some  dressers.  They  stood  against  the 
wall  and  were  filled  with  crockery.  We 
never  owned  a  chair.  There  were  several 
pine  stools,  a  few  creepies  (small  stools), 
and  a  long  bench  that  ran  along  the  bed- 
42 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

room  wall,  from  the  chimney  corner  to  the 
bedroom  door.  The  mud  floor  never  had 
the  luxury  of  a  covering,  nor  did  a  pic 
ture  ever  adorn  the  bare  walls.  When  the 
floor  needed  patching,  Jamie  went  to  some 
body's  garden,  brought  a  shovelful  of  earth 
mixed  it  and  filled  the  holes.  The  stools 
and  creepies  were  scrubbed  once  a  week, 
the  table  once  a  day.  I  could  draw  an 
outline  of  that  old  table  now  and  accurately 
mark  every  dent  and  crack  in  it.  I  do  not 
know  where  it  came  from,  but  each  of  us 
had  a  hope  that  one  day  we  should  possess 
a  pig.  We  built  around  the  hope  a  sty  and 
placed  it  against  the  end  of  the  cabin. 
The  pig  never  turned  up,  but  the  hope  lived 
there  throughout  a  generation! 

We  owned  a  goat  once.  In  three 
months  it  reduced  the  smooth  kindly  feel 
ing  in  Pogue's  entry  to  the  point  of  total 
eclipse.  We  sold  it  and  spent  a  year  in 
winning  back  old  friends.  We  had  a  gar 
den,  It  measured  thirty-six  by  sixteen 

43 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

inches,  and  was  just  outside  the  front  win 
dow.  At  one  end  was  a  small  currant  bush 
and  in  the  rest  of  the  space  Anna  grew  an 
annual  crop  of  nasturtiums. 

Once  we  were  prosperous.  That  was 
when  two  older  brothers  worked  with  my 
father  at  shoemaking.  I  remember  them,  on 
winter  nights,  sitting  around  the  big  candle 
stick  —  one  of  the  three  always  singing  folk 
songs  as  he  worked.  As  they  worked  near 
the  window,  Anna  sat  in  her  corner  and  by 
the  light  of  a  candle  in  her  little  sconce  made 
waxed  ends  for  the  men.  I  browsed  among 
the  lasts,  clipping,  cutting  and  scratching  old 
leather  parings  and  dreaming  of  the  won 
derful  days  beyond  when  I  too  could  make 
a  boot  and  sing  "  Black-eyed  Susan." 

Then  the  news  came — news  of  a 
revolution. 

"  They  're  making  boots  by  machinery 
now,"  Anna  said  one  day. 

"  It 's  dotin'   ye   are,   Anna,"   Jamie  re 
plied.     She  read  the  account. 
44 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

"  How  cud  a  machine  make  a  boot, 
Anna?"  he  asked  in  bewilderment. 

"I  don't  know,  dear." 

Barney  McQuillan  was  the  village  au 
thority  on  such  things.  When  he  told 
Jamie,  he  looked  aghast  and  said,  "  How 
quare ! " 

Then  makers  became  menders  —  shoe 
makers  became  cobblers.  There  was  some 
thing  of  magic  and  romance  in  the  news 
that  a  machine  could  turn  out  as  much 
work  as  twenty-five  men,  but  when  my 
brothers  moved  away  to  other  parts  of 
the  world  to  find  work,  the  romance  was 
rubbed  off. 

"Maybe  we  can  get  a  machine?"  Jamie 
said. 

"  Aye,  but  shure  ye  'd  have  to  get  a  fac 
tory  to  put  it  in !  " 

"Is  that  so?" 

"  Aye,  an'  we  find  it  hard  enough  t'  pay 
fur  what  we  're  in  now !  " 

Barney  McQuillan  was  the  master-shoe- 
45 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maker  in  our  town  who  was  best  able  to 
readjust  himself  to  changed  conditions. 
He  became  a  master-cobbler  and  doled  out 
what  he  took  in  to  men  like  Jamie.  He 
kept  a  dozen  men  at  work,  making  a  little 
off  each,  just  as  the  owner  of  the  machine 
did  in  the  factory.  In  each  case  the  need 
of  skill  vanished  and  the  power  of  capital 
advanced.  Jamie  dumbly  took  what  was 
left  —  cobbling  for  Barney.  To  Anna  the 
whole  thing  meant  merely  the  death  of  a 
few  more  hopes.  For  over  twenty  years 
she  had  fought  a  good  fight,  a  fight  in  which 
she  played  a  losing  part,  though  she  was 
never  wholly  defeated. 

Her  first  fight  was  against  slang  and 
slovenly  speech.  She  started  early  in  their 
married  life  to  correct  Jamie.  He  tried 
hard  and  often,  but  he  found  it  difficult  to 
speak  one  language  to  his  wife  and  another 
to  his  customers.  From  the  lips  of  Anna, 
it  sounded  all  right,  but  the  same  pronun- 
46 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

ciation  by  Jamie  seemed  affected  and  his 
customers  gaped  at  him. 

Then  she  directed  her  efforts  anew  to  the 
children.  One  after  another  she  corrected 
their  grammar  and  pronunciation,  cor 
rected  them  every  day  and  every  hour  of 
the  day  that  they  were  in  her  presence. 
Here  again  she  was  doomed  to  failure. 
The  children  lived  on  the  street  and  spoke 
its  language.  It  seemed  a  hopeless  task. 
She  never  whined  over  it.  She  was  too 
busy  cleaning,  cooking,  sewing  and  at  odd 
times  helping  Jamie,  but  night  after  night 
for  nearly  a  generation  she  took  stock  of  a 
life's  effort  and  each  milestone  on  the  way 
spelt  failure.  She  could  see  no  light  — 
not  a  glimmer.  Not  only  had  she  failed 
to  impress  her  language  upon  others,  but 
she  found  herself  gradually  succumbing  to 
her  environment  and  actually  lapsing  into 
vulgar  forms  herself.  There  was  a  larger 
and  more  vital  conflict  than  the  one  she 
47 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

had  lost.  It  was  the  fight  against  dirt.  In 
such  small  quarters,  with  so  many  children 
and  such  activity  in  work  she  fought 
against  great  odds.  Bathing  facilities 
were  almost  impossible:  water  had  to  be 
brought  from  the  town  well,  except  what 
fell  on  the  roof,  and  that  was  saved  for 
washing  clothes.  Whatever  bathing  there 
was,  was  done  in  the  tub  in  which  Jamie 
steeped  his  leather.  We  children  were 
suspicious  that  when  Jamie  bathed  Anna 
had  a  hand  in  it.  They  had  a  joke  be 
tween  them  that  could  only  be  explained  on 
that  basis.  She  called  it  "  grooming  the 
elephant." 

"  Jist  wait,  m'  boy,"  she  would  say  in  a 
spirit  of  kindly  banter,  "  till  the  elephant 
has  to  be  groomed,  and  I  '11  bring  ye  down 
a  peg  or  two." 

There  was  a  difference  of  opinion  among 
them  as  to  the  training  of  children. 

"  No  chile  iver  thrived  on  saft  words," 
he  said;  "a  wet  welt  is  betther." 
48 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

"  Aye,  yer  wet  welt  stings  th'  flesh, 
Jamie,  but  it  niver  gets  at  a  chile's  mind." 

"  Thrue  for  you,  but  who  th' kin 

get  at  a  chile's  mind?" 

One  day  I  was  chased  into  the  house  by 
a  bigger  boy.  I  had  found  a  farthing. 
He  said  it  was  his.  The  money  was 
handed  over  and  the  boy  left  with  his 
tongue  in  his  cheek.  I  was  ordered  to 
strip.  When  ready  he  laid  me  across  his 
knee  and  applied  the  "  wet  welt." 

An  hour  later  it  was  discovered  that  a 
week  had  elapsed  between  the  losing  and 
finding  of  the  farthing.  No  sane  person 
would  believe  that  a  farthing  could  lie 
for  a  whole  week  on  the  streets  of  An 
trim. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  ye  need  a  warmin' 
like  that  ivery  day,  an'  ye  had  nown  yes- 
therday,  did  ye?" 

On  another  occasion  I  found  a  ball,  one 
that  had  never  been  lost.  A  boy,  hoping 
to  get  me  in  front  of  my  father,  claimed 
49 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the  ball.  My  mother  on  this  occasion  sat 
in  judgment. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  ball?"  she 
asked  the  boy.  He  could  n't  remember. 
She  probed  for  the  truth,  but  neither 
of  us  would  give  in.  When  all  efforts 
failed  she  cut  the  ball  in  half  and  gave  each 
a  piece! 

"  Nixt  time  I  '11  tell  yer  Dah,"  the  boy 
said  when  he  got  outside,  "  he  makes  you 
squeal  like  a  pig." 

When  times  were  good  —  when  work 
and  wages  got  a  little  ahead  of  hunger, 
which  was  seldom,  Anna  baked  her  own 
bread.  Three  kinds  of  bread  she  baked. 
"  Soda," —  common  flour  bread,  never  in 
the  shape  of  a  loaf,  but  bread  that  lay  flat 
on  the  griddle;  "  pirta  oaten"-— made  of 
flour  and  oatmeal ;  and  "  fadge  "  -  potato 
bread.  She  always  sung  while  baking  and 
she  sang  the  most  melancholy  and  plaintive 
airs.  As  she  baked  and  sang  I  stood  beside 
her  on  a  creepie  watching  the  process  and 
50 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

awaiting  the  end,  for  at  the  close  of  each 
batch  of  bread  I  always  had  my  "  duragh  " 
—  an  extra  piece. 

When  hunger  got  ahead  of  wages  the 
family  bread  was  bought  at  Sam  Johnson's 
bakery.  The  journey  to  Sam's  was  full 
of  temptation  to  me.  Hungry  and  with  a 
vested  interest  in  the  loaf  on  my  arm,  I 
was  not  over  punctilious  in  details  of  the 
moral  law.  Anna  pointed  out  the  oppor 
tunities  of  such  a  journey.  It  was  a 
chance  to  try  my  mettle  with  the  arch 
tempter.  It  was  a  mental  gymnasium  in 
which  moral  muscle  got  strength.  There 
was  n't  in  all  Ireland  a  mile  of  highway 
so  well  paved  with  good  intentions.  I  used 
to  start  out,  well  keyed  up  morally  and 
humming  over  and  over  the  order  of  the 
day.  When,  on  the  home  stretch,  I  had 
made  a  dent  in  Sam's  architecture,  I  would 
lay  the  loaf  down  on  the  table,  good  side 
toward  my  mother.  While  I  was  doing 
that  she  had  read  the  story  of  the  fall  on 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

my  face.  I  could  feel  her  penetrating 
gaze. 

''So  he  got  ye,   did   he?" 

"  Aye,"  I  would  say  in  a  voice  too  low 
to  be  heard  by  my  father. 

The  order  at  Sam's  was  usually  a  six 
penny  loaf,  three  ha'pence  worth  of  tea 
and  sugar  and  half  an  ounce  of  tobacco. 

There  were  times  when  Barney  had  no 
work  for  my  father,  and  on  such  occasions 
I  came  home  empty-handed.  Then  Jamie 
would  go  out  to  find  work  as  a  day  laborer. 
Periods  like  these  were  glossed  over  by 
Anna's  humor  and  wit.  As  they  sat 
around  the  table,  eating  "  stir-about " 
without  milk,  or  bread  without  tea,  Jamie 
would  grunt  and  complain. 

"  Aye,  faith,"  Anna  would  say,  "  it 's 
purty  bad,  but  it 's  worse  where  there 's 
none  at  all !  " 

When  the  wolf  lingered  long  at  the  door 
I  went  foraging  —  foraging  as  forages  a 
hungry  dog  and  in  the  same  places. 

52 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

Around  the  hovels  of  the  poor  where  dogs 
have  clean  teeth  a  boy  has  little  chance. 
One  day,  having  exhausted  the  ordinary 
channels  of  relief  without  success,  I  betook 
myself  to  the  old  swimming-hole  on  the  mill 
race.  The  boys  had  a  custom  of  taking  a 
"  shiverin'  bite "  when  they  went  bathing. 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  July  and 
quite  a  crowd  sat  around  the  hole.  I 
neither  needed  nor  wanted  a  bath — I 
wanted  a  bite.  No  one  offered  a  share  of 
his  crust.  A  big  boy  named  Healy  was 
telling  of  his  prowess  as  a  fighter. 

"  I  '11  fight  ye  fur  a  penny !  "  said  I. 

"Where's  yer  penny?"  said  Healy. 

"  I  '11  get  it  th'  morra." 

A  man  seeing  the  difficulty  and  willing 
to  invest  in  a  scrap  advanced  the  wager. 
I  was  utterly  outclassed  and  beaten.  Peel 
ing  my  clothes  off  I  went  into  the  race  for 
a  swim  and  to  wash  the  blood  off.  When 
I  came  out  Healy  had  hidden  my  trousers. 
I  searched  for  hours  in  vain.  The  man 

53 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

who  paid  the  wager  gave  me  an  extra 
penny  and  I  went  home  holding  my  jacket 
in  front  of  my  legs.  The  penny  saved  me 
from  a  "  warming,"  but  Anna,  feeling  that 
some  extra  discipline  was  necessary,  made 
me  a  pair  of  trousers  out  of  an  old  potato 
sack. 

"  That 's  sackcloth,  dear,"  she  said,  "  an' 
ye  can  aither  sit  in  th'  ashes  in  them  or 
wear  them  in  earning  another  pair!  Hold 
fast  t'  yer  penny ! " 

In  this  penitential  outfit  I  had  to  sell  my 
papers.  Every  fiber  of  my  being  tingled 
with  shame  and  humiliation.  I  did  n't 
complain  of  the  penance,  but  I  swore 
vengeance  on  Healy.  She  worked  the  de 
sire  for  vengeance  out  of  my  system  in  her 
chimney-corner  by  reading  to  me  often 
enough,  so  that  I  memorized  the  fifty- 
third  chapter  of  Isaiah.  Miss  McGee,  the 
postmistress,  gave  me  sixpence  for  the  ac 
complishment  and  that  went  toward  a 
new  pair  of  trousers.  Concerning  Healy, 
54 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

Anna  said :  "  Bate  'im  with  a  betther 
brain,  dear! " 

Despite  my  fistic  encounters,  my  dents 
in  the  family  loaves,  my  shinny,  my  mar 
bles  and  the  various  signs  of  total  or  at 
least  partial  depravity,  Anna  clung  to  the 
hope  that  out  of  this  thing  might  finally 
come  what  she  was  looking,  praying  and 
hoping  for. 

An  item  on  the  credit  side  of  my  ledger 
was  that  I  was  born  in  a  caul  —  a  thin 
filmy  veil  that  covered  me  at  birth.  Of 
her  twelve  I  was  the  only  one  born  in 
"  luck."  In  a  little  purse  she  kept  the 
caul,  and  on  special  occasions  she  would 
exhibit  it  and  enumerate  the  benefits  and 
privileges  that  went  with  it.  Persons  born 
in  a  caul  were  immune  from  being  hung, 
drawn  and  quartered,  burned  to  death  or 
lost  at  sea. 

It  was  on  the  basis  of  the  caul  I 
was  rented  to  old  Mary  McDonagh.  My 
duty  was  to  meet  her  every  Monday  morn- 
55 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

ing.  The  meeting  insured  her  luck  for  the 
week.  Mary  was  a  huckster.  She  car 
ried  her  shop  on  her  arm  —  a  wicker 
basket  in  which  she  had  thread,  needles, 
ribbons  and  other  things  which  she  sold 
to  the  farmers  and  folks  away  from  the 
shopping  center.  No  one  is  lucky  while 
bare- footed.  Having  no  shoes  I  clattered 
down  Sandy  Somerville's  entry  in  my 
father's.  At  the  first  clatter,  she  came  out, 
basket  on  arm,  and  said: 

"  Morra,   bhoy,   God's   blessin'    on   ye!" 

"  Morra,  Mary,  an'  good  luck  t'  ye,"  was 
my  answer. 

I  used  to  express  my  wonder  that  I 
could  n't  turn  this  luck  of  a  dead-sure 
variety  into  a  pair  of  shoes  for  myself. 

Anna  said :  "  Yer  luck,  dear,  is  n't  in 
what  ye  can  get,  but  in  what  ye  can  give ! " 

When    Antrim    opened    its    first    flower 

show  I  was  a  boy  of  all  work  at  old  Mrs. 

Chaine's.     The  gardener  was  pleased  with 

my  work  and  gave  me  a  hothouse  plant  to 

56 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

put  in  competition.  I  carried  it  home 
proudly  and  laid  it  down  beside  her  in  the 
chimney-corner. 

"  The  gerd'ner  says  it  '11  bate  th'  brains 
out  on  aany  geranium  in  the  show ! "  I 
said. 

"  Throth  it  will  that,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  but  sure  ye  could  n't  take  a  prize 
fur  it!" 

"Why?"  I  growled. 

"  Ah,  honey,  shure  everybody  would 
know  that  ye  did  n't  grow  it  —  forby  they 
know  that  th'  smoke  in  here  would  kill  it 
in  a  few  days." 

I  sulked  and  protested. 

'  That 's  a  nice  way  t'  throw  cowld 
wather  on  th'  chile,"  Jamie  said.  "  Why 
don't  ye  let  'im  go  on  an'  take  his  chances 
at  the  show  ?  " 

A  pained  look  overspread  her  features. 
It  was  as  if  he  had  struck  her  with  his  fist. 
Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  said 
huskily : 

57 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  The  whole  world  's  a  show,  Jamie,  an' 
this  is  the  only  place  the  wee  fella  has  to 
rehearse  in." 

I  sat  down  beside  her  and  laid  my  head 
in  her  lap.  She  stroked  it  in  silence  for 
a  minute  or  two.  I  could  n't  quite  see, 
however,  how  I  could  miss  that  show! 
She  saw  that  after  all  I  was  determined 
to  enter  the  lists.  She  offered  to  put  a  card 
on  it  for  me  so  that  they  would  know  the 
name  of  the  owner.  This  is  what  she 
wrote  on  the  card : 

"  This  plant  is  lent  for  decorative 
purposes." 

That  night  there  was  an  unusual  atmos 
phere  in  her  corner.  She  had  a  newly 
tallied  cap  on  her  head  and  her  little  Sun 
day  shawl  over  her  shoulders.  Her  candle 
was  burning  and  the  hearthstones  had  an 
extra  coat  of  whitewash.  She  drew  me  up 
close  beside  her  and  told  me  a  story. 

"  Once,  a  long,  long  time  ago,  God, 
feelin'  tired,  went  to  sleep  an'  had  a  nice 

58 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

wee  nap  on  His  throne.  His  head  was  in 
His  han's  an'  a  wee  white  cloud  came 
down  an'  covered  him  up.  Purty  soon  He 
wakes  up  an'  says  He: 

"'Where's  Michael?' 

"  '  Here  I  am,  Father ! '  said  Michael. 

"  '  Michael,  me  boy,'  says  God,  '  I  want  a 
chariot  and  a  charioteer ! ' 

"  '  Right  ye  are ! '  says  he.  Up  comes  the 
purtiest  chariot  in  the  city  of  Heaven  an' 
finest  charioteer. 

" '  Me  boy,'  says  God,  '  take  a  million 
tons  ov  th'  choicest  seeds  of  th'  flowers  of 
Heaven  an'  take  a  trip  around  th'  world 
wi'  them.  Scatther  them,'  says  He,  '  be 
th'  roadsides  an'  th'  wild  places  of  th' 
earth  where  my  poor  live.' 

"  '  Aye,'  says  the  charioteer,  '  that 's  jist 
like  ye,  Father.  It 's  th'  purtiest  job  of  m' 
afther-life  an'  I  '11  do  it  finely.' 

'  It 's  jist  come  t'  Me  in  a  dream/  says 
th'    Father,    'that    th'    rich    have    all    the 
flowers    down    there    and   th'   poor   haave 
59 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nown  at  all.  If  a  million  tons  is  n't  enough 
take  a  billion  tons ! ' 

At  this  point  I  got  in  some  questions 
about  God's  language  and  the  kind  of 
flowers. 

"Well,  dear,"  she  said,  "He  spakes 
Irish  t'  Irish  people  and  the  charioteer  was 
an  Irishman." 

"Maybe  it  was  a  wuman!"  I  ven 
tured. 

"  Aye,  but  there 's  no  difference  up 
there." 

"  Th'  flowers,"  she  said,  "  were  prim 
roses,  butthercups  an'  daisies  an'  th' 
flowers  that  be  handy  t'  th'  poor,  an'  from 
that  day  to  this  there 's  been  flowers 
a-plenty  for  all  of  us  everywhere !  " 

"  Now  you  go  to-morra  an'  gether  a 
basketful  an'  we  '11  fix  them  up  in  th'  shape 
of  th'  Pryamid  of  Egypt  an'  maybe  ye  '11 
get  a  prize." 

I  spent  the  whole  of  the  following  day, 
from  dawn  to  dark,  roaming  over  the  wild 
60 


REHEARSING  FOR  THE  SHOW 

places  near  Antrim  gathering  the  flowers 
of  the  poor.  My  mother  arranged  them  in  a 
novel  bouquet  —  a  bouquet  of  wild  flowers, 
the  base  of  it  yellow  primroses,  the  apex 
of  pink  shepherd's  sundials,  and  between 
the  base  and  the  apex  one  of  the  greatest 
variety  of  wild  flowers  ever  gotten  together 
in  that  part  of  the  world. 

It  created  a  sensation  and  took  first  prize. 
At  the  close  of  the  exhibition  Mrs.  James 
Chaine  distributed  the  prizes.  When  my 
name  was  called  I  went  forward  slowly, 
blushing  in  my  rags,  and  received  a  twenty- 
four  piece  set  of  china!  It  gave  me  a  fit! 
I  took  it  home,  put  it  in  her  lap  and 
danced.  We  held  open  house  for  a  week, 
so  that  every  man,  woman  and  child 
in  the  community  could  come  in  and 
"  handle  "  it. 

Withero  said  we  ought  to  save  up  and 
build  a  house  to  keep  it  in! 

She  thought  that  a  propitious  time  to 
explain  the  inscription  she  put  on  the  card. 
61 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Ah,   thin,"   I   said,   "  shure   it 's  thrue 
what  ye  always  say." 
"What's  that,  dear?" 
"  It 's  nice  t'  be  nice." 


A.MIE  and  Anna  kept  the 
Sabbath.  It  was  a  habit 
with  them  and  the  children 
got  it,  one  after  another,  as 
they  came  along.  When 
the  town  clock  struck  twelve  on  Saturday 
night  the  week's  work  was  done.  The  cus 
tomers  were  given  fair  warning  that  at 
the  hour  of  midnight  the  bench  would  be 
put  away  until  Monday  morning.  There 
was  nothing  theological  about  the  observ 
ance.  It  was  a  custom,  not  a  code. 
Anna  looked  upon  it  as  an  over-punctilious 
notion.  More  than  once  she  was  heard  to 
say :  "  The  Sabbath  was  made  for  maan, 
Jamie,  and  not  maan  for  th'  Sabbath." 
His  answer  had  brevity  and  point.  "  I 

63 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

don't  care  a  damn  what  it  was  made  for, 
Anna,  I  '11  quit  at  twelve."  And  he  quit. 

Sometimes  Anna  would  take  an  unfin 
ished  job  and  finish  it  herself.  There 
were  things  in  cobbling  she  could  do  as 
well  as  Jamie.  Her  defense  of  doing  it 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  Sabbath  was: 
"  Sure  God  has  more  important  work  to 
do  than  to  sit  up  late  to  watch  us  mend  the 
boots  of  the  poor;  forby  it's  better  to 
haave  ye're  boots  mended  an'  go  to  church 
than  to  sit  in  th'  ashes  on  Sunday  an'  swal 
low  the  smoke  of  bad  turf!  " 

"Aye,"  Jamie  would  say,  "it's  jist 
wondtherful  what  we  can  do  if  we  haave 
th'  right  kind  ov  a  conscience !  " 

Jamie's  first  duty  on  Sunday  was  to  clean 
out  the  thrush's  cage.  He  was  very  proud 
of  Dicky  and  gave  him  a  bath  every  morn 
ing  and  a  house  cleaning  on  Sunday.  We 
children  loved  Sunday.  On  that  day 
Anna  reigned.  She  wore  her  little  shawl 
over  her  shoulders  and  her  hair  was  en- 
64 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

closed  in  a  newly  tallied  white  cap.  She 
smoked  little,  but  on  Sundays  after  dinner 
she  always  had  her  "  dhraw  "  with  Jamie. 
Anna's  Sunday  chore  was  to  whitewash 
the  hearthstones  and  clean  the  house. 
When  the  table  was  laid  for  Sunday  break 
fast  and  the  kettle  hung  on  the  chain  sing 
ing  and  Anna  was  in  her  glory  of  white 
linen,  the  children  were  supremely  happy. 
In  their  wildest  dreams  there  was  nothing 
quite  as  beautiful  as  that.  Whatever  hun 
ger,  disappointment,  or  petty  quarrel  hap 
pened  during  the  week  it  was  forgotten  on 
Sunday.  It  was  a  day  of  supreme  peace. 
Sunday  breakfast  was  what  she  called 
a  "  puttiby,"  something  light  to  tide  them 
over  until  dinner  time.  Dinner  was  the 
big  meal  of  the  week.  At  every  meal  I 
sat  beside  my  mother.  If  we  had  stir 
about,  I  was  favored,  but  not  enough  to 
arouse  jealousy:  I  scraped  the  pot.  If  it 
was  "  tay,"  I  got  a  few  bits  of  the  crust 
of  Anna's  bread.  We  called  it  "  scroof." 

65 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

About  ten  o'clock  the  preparations  for 
the  big  dinner  began.  We  had  meat  once 
a  week.  At  least  it  was  the  plan  to  have 
it  so  often.  Of  course  there  were  times 
when  the  plan  did  n't  work,  but  when  it  did 
Sunday  was  meat  day.  The  word  "  meat  " 
was  never  used.  It  Was  "  kitchen "  or 
"  beef."  Both  words  meant  the  same 
thing,  and  bacon  might  be  meant  by  either 
of  them. 

In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  Sunday 
"  kitchen "  was  a  cow's  head,  a  "  calf's 
head  and  pluck,"  a  pair  of  cow's  feet,  a 
few  sheep's  "  trotters  "  or  a  quart  of  sheep's 
blood.  Sometimes  it  was  the  entrails  of 
a  pig.  Only  when  there  was  no  money  for 
"  kitchen  "  did  we  have  blood.  It  was  at 
first  fried  and  then  made  part  of  the  broth. 

The  broth-pot  on  Sunday  was  the  center. 
The  economic  status  of  a  family  could  be 
as  easily  gaged  by  tasting  their  broth  as 
by  counting  the  weekly  income.  Big 
money,  good  broth;  little  money,  thin 
66 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

broth.  The  slimmer  the  resource  the  fewer 
the  ingredients.  The  pot  was  an  index  to 
every  condition  and  the  talisman  of  every 
family.  It  was  an  opportunity  to  show  off. 
When  Jamie  donned  a  "  dickey "  once  to 
attend  a  funeral  and  came  home  with  it  in 
his  pocket,  no  comment  was  made;  but  if 
Anna  made  poor  broth  it  was  the  talk  of 
the  entry  for  a  week. 

Good  broth  consisted  of  "  kitchen,"  bar 
ley,  greens  and  tithing1.  Next  to  "  kitchen  " 
barley  was  the  most  expensive  ingredient. 
Folks  in  Pogue's  entry  did  n't  always  have 
it,  but  there  were  a  number  of  cheap  sub 
stitutes,  such  as  hard  peas  or  horse  beans. 
Amongst  half  a  dozen  families  in  and 
around  the  entry  there  was  a  broth  ex 
change.  Each  family  made  a  few  extra 
quarts  and  exchanged  them.  They  were 
distributed  in  quart  tin  cans.  Each  can 
was  emptied,  washed,  refilled  and  returned. 
Ann  O'Hare,  the  chimneysweep's  wife,  was 
usually  first  on  hand.  She  had  the  un- 
67 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

enviable  reputation  of  being  the  "  dhirtiest 
craither  "  in  the  community.  Jamie  called 
her  "  Sooty  Ann." 

"  There  's  a  gey  good  smell  from  yer  pot, 
Anna,"  she  said ;  "  what  haave  ye  in  it  th' 
day?" 

"  Oh,  jist  a  few  sheep's  throtters  and  a 
wheen  of  nettles." 

"  Who  gethered  th'  nettles  ?  " 

Anna  pointed  to  me. 

"Did  th'  sting  bad,  me  baughal?" 

"  Ded  no,  not  aany,"  I  said. 

"Did  ye  squeeze  thim  tight?" 

"  I  put  m'  Dah's  socks  on  m'  han's." 

"  Aye,  that 's  a  good  thrick." 

Anna  had  a  mouth  that  looked  like  a 
torn  pocket.  She  could  pucker  it  into  the 
queerest  shapes.  She  smacked  her  thin  blue 
lips,  puckered  her  mouth  a  number  of  times 
while  Anna  emptied  and  refilled  the  can. 

"  If  this  is  as  good  as  it  smells,"  she  said 
as  she  went  out,  "  I  '11  jist  sup  it  myself 
and  let  oul  Billy  go  chase  himself!  " 
68 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

Jamie  was  the  family  connoisseur  in  mat 
ters  relating  to  broth.  He  tasted  Ann's. 
The  family  waited  for  the  verdict. 

"  Purty  good  barley  an'  lithin',"  he  said, 
"  but  it  smells  like  Billy's  oul  boots." 

"  Shame  on  ye,  Jamie,"  Anna  said. 

"  Well,  give  us  your  highfalutin'  opinion 
ov  it ! "  Anna  sipped  a  spoonful  and  re 
marked  :  "  It  might  be  worse." 

"  Aye,  it 's  worse  where  there  's  nown, 
but  on  yer  oath  now  d  'ye  think  Sooty  Ann 
washed  her  han's?" 

"  Good  clane  dhirt  will  poison  no  one, 
Jamie." 

"  Thrue,  but  this  is  n't  clane  dhirt,  it 's 
soot  —  bitther  soot !  " 

It  was  agreed  to  pass  the  O'Hare  de- 
lection.  When  it  cooled  I  quietly  gave  it 
to  my  friend  Rover  —  Mrs.  Lorimer's  dog. 

Hen  Cassidy  came  next.  Hen's  mother 
was  a  widow  who  lived  on  the  edge  of 
want.  Hen  and  I  did  a  little  barter  and  ex 
change  on  the  side,  while  Anna  emptied 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

and  refilled  his  can.     He  had  scarcely  gone 
when  the  verdict  was  rendered: 

"  Bacon  an'  nettles,"  Jamie  said,  "  she  's 
as  hard  up  as  we  are,  this  week!  " 

"Poor  craither,"  Anna  said;  "I  won- 
dther  if  she  's  got  aany thing  besides  broth  ?  " 
Nobody  knew.  Anna  thought  she  knew  a 
way  to  find  out. 

"  Haave  ye  aany  marbles,  dear?"  she 
asked  me. 

"  Aye,  a  wheen." 

"  Wud  ye  give  a  wheen  to  me  ?  " 

"Aye,  are  ye  goin'  t'  shoot  awhile?  If 
ye  are  I  '11  give  ye  half  an'  shoot  ye  fur 
thim !  "  I  said. 

"  No,  I  jist  want  t'  borra  some."  I 
handed  out  a  handful  of  marbles. 

"  Now  don't  glunch,  dear,  when  I  tell 
ye  what  I  want  thim  fur."  I  promised. 

"  Whistle  fur  Hen,"  she  said,  "  and  give 
him  that  han'ful  of  marbles  if  he  '11  tell  ye 
what  his  mother  haas  fur  dinner  th'  day." 

I  whistled  and  Hen  responded. 
70 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

"  I  '11  bate  ye  two  chanies,  Hen,  that  I 
know  what  ye  've  got  fur  dinner !  " 

"  I  '11  bate  ye !  "  said  Hen,  "  show  yer 
chanies ! " 

"  Show  yours !  "  said  I. 

Hen  had  none,  but  I  volunteered  to  trust 
him. 

"  Go  on  now,  guess !  "  said  he. 

"  Pirtas  an'  broth !  "  said  I. 

"  Yer  blinked,  ye  cabbage  head,  we  've 
got  two  yards  ov  thripe  forby !  " 

I  carried  two  quarts  to  as  many  neigh 
bors.  Mary  carried  three.  As  they  were 
settling  down  to  dinner  Arthur  Gainer 
arrived  with  his  mother's  contribution. 
Jamie  sampled  it  and  laughed  outright. 

"  An  oul  cow  put  'er  feet  in  it,"  he  said. 
Anna  took  a  taste. 

"  She  did  n't  keep  it  in  long  aither,"  was 
her  comment. 

"  D'  ye  iver  mind  seein'  barley  in  Gain 
er's  broth  ?  "  Jamie  asked. 

"  I  haave  no  recollection." 

71 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  If  there  is  n't  a  kink  in  m'  power  of 
remembrance,"  Jamie  said,  "  they  've  had 
nothin'  but  bacon  an'  nettles  since  th'  big 
famine." 

"What  did  th'  haave  before  that?" 
Anna  asked. 

"  Bacon  an'  nettles,"  he  said. 

"  Did  ye  ever  think,  Jamie,  how  like  folks 
are  to  th'  broth  they  make?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  but  there 's  no  raisin 
why  people  should  sting  jist  because 
they  Ve  got  nothin'  but  nettles  in  their 
broth!" 

The  potatoes  were  emptied  out  of  the 
pot  on  the  bare  table,  my  father  encircling 
it  with  his  arms  to  prevent  them  from  roll 
ing  off.  A  little  pile  of  salt  was  placed 
beside  each  person  and  each  had  a  big 
bowl  full  of  broth.  The  different  kinds 
had  lost  their  identity  in  the  common 
pot. 

In  the  midst  of  the  meal  came  visitors. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye !  "  said  Billy 
72 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

Baxter  as  he  walked  in  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

"  Thank  ye,  Billy,  haave  a  good  bowl  of 
broth?" 

"Thank  ye,  thank  ye,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  mind  a  good  bowl  ov  broth,  Anna, 
but  I'd  prefer  a  bowl  —  jist  a  bowl  of 
good  broth!" 

"  Ye  've  had  larks  for  breakvist  surely, 
haave  n't  ye,  Billy  ?  "  Anna  said. 

"  No,  I  did  n't,  but  there  's  a  famine  of 
good  broth  these  days.  When  I  was  young 
we  had  the  rale  McKie ! "  Billy  took  a 
bowl,  nevertheless,  and  went  to  Jamie's 
bench  to  "  sup "  it. 

Eliza  Wallace,  the  fish  woman,  came  in. 

"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  ye  kindly,  'Liza,  sit  down  an' 
haave  a  bowl  of  broth !  "  It  was  baled  out 
and  Eliza  sat  down  on  the  floor  near  the 
window. 

McGrath,  the  rag  man,  "  dhrapped  in." 
"  Much  good  may  it  do  ye !  "  he  said. 

73 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Thank  ye  kindly,  Tom,"  Anna  said, 
"  ye  '11  surely  have  a  bowl  ov  broth." 

"  Jist  wan  spoonful,"  McGrath  said. 
I  emptied  my  bowl  at  a  nod  from 
Anna,  rinsed  it  out  at  the  tub  and  filled 
it  with  broth.  McGrath  sat  on  the  door 
step. 

After  the  dinner  Anna  read  a  story  from 
the  Weekly  Budget  and  the  family  and 
guests  sat  around  and  listened.  Then  came 
the  weekly  function,  over  which  there 
invariably  arose  an  altercation  amongst 
the  children.  It  was  the  Sunday  visit  of 
the  Methodist  tract  distributor — Miss 
Clarke.  It  was  not  an  unmixed  dread,  for 
sometimes  she  brought  a  good  story  and 
the  family  enjoyed  it.  The  usual  row  took 
place  as  to  who  should  go  to  the  door  and 
return  the  tract.  It  was  finally  decided 
that  I  should  face  the  ordeal.  My  prep 
aration  was  to  wash  my  feet,  rake  my 
hair  into  order  and  soap  it  down,  cover  up 
a  few  holes  and  await  the  gentle  knock  on 
74 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

the  doorpost.     It  came  and  I  bounded  to 
the  door,  tract  in  hand. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  she  began,  "  did 
your  mother  read  the  tract  this  week?" 

"  Yis,  mem,  an'  she  says  it 's  fine." 

"Do  you  remember  the  name  of  it?" 

"  '  Get  yer  own  Cherries/  "  said  I. 

"  B-u-y,"  came  the  correction  in  clear 
tones  from  behind  the  partition. 

" '  Buy  yer  own  Cherries,'  it  is,  mem." 

"  That 's  better,"  the  lady  said.  "  Some 
people  get  cherries,  other  people  buy  them." 

"  Aye." 

I  never  bought  any.  I  knew  every  wild- 
cherry  tree  within  twenty  miles  of  Antrim. 
The  lady  saw  an  opening  and  went  in. 
"  Did  you  ever  get  caught?  "  she  asked.  I 
hung  my  head.  Then  followed  a  brief  lec 
ture  on  private  property  —  brief,  for  it  was 
cut  short  by  Anna,  who,  without  any 
apology  or  introduction,  said  as  she  con 
fronted  the  slum  evangel: 

"Is  God  our  Father?" 
75 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  the  lady  answered. 
"An'  we  are  all  His  childther?" 
"  Assuredly." 

"  Would  ye  starve  yer  brother  Tom  ?  " 
"  Of   course  not." 

"  But  ye  don't  mind  s'  much  th'  starva 
tion  of  all  yer  other  wee  brothers  an'  sis- 
J 

ters  on  th'  streets,  do  ye?" 

There  was  a  commotion  behind  the  paper 
partition.  The  group  stood  in  breathless 
silence  until  the  hunger  question  was  put, 
then  they  "  dunched  "  each  other  and  made 
faces.  My  father  took  a  handful  of  my 
hair,  and  gave  it  a  good-natured  but  vigor 
ous  tug  to  prevent  an  explosion. 

"Oh,  Anna!"  she  said,  "you  are  mis 
taken  ;  I  would  starve  nobody  —  and  far 
be  it  from  me  to  accuse  — 

"  Accuse,"  said  Anna,  raising  her  gentle 
voice.  "  Why,  acushla,  nobody  needs  t' 
accuse  th'  poor;  th'  guilty  need  no  accuser. 
We  're  convicted  by  bein'  poor,  by  bein' 
born  poor  an'  dying  poor,  are  n't  we  now  ?  " 
76 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

"  With  the  Lord  there  is  neither  rich  nor 
poor,  Anna." 

"  Aye,  an'  that 's  no  news  to  me,  but  with 
good  folks  like  you  it 's  different." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  assure  you  I  think  that 
exactly." 

"  Well,  now,  if  it  makes  no  diff'rence, 
dear,  why  do  ye  come  down  Pogue's  entry 
like  a  bailiff  or  a  process-sarver  ?  " 

"I  didn't,  I  just  hinted— " 

"  Aye,  ye  hinted  an'  a  wink  's  as  good  as 
a  nod  to  a  blind  horse.  Now  tell  me  truly 
an'  cross  yer  heart  —  wud  ye  go  to  Bally- 
craigie  doore  an'  talk  t'  wee  Willie  Chaine 
as  ye  talked  t'  my  bhoy  jist  now? " 

"No—" 

"  No,  'deed  ye  wud  n't  for  th'  wud  n't  let 
ye,  but  because  we  've  no  choice  ye  come 
down  here  like  a  petty  sessions-magistrate 
an'  make  my  bhoy  feel  like  a  thief  because 
he  goes  like  a  crow  an'  picks  a  wild  cherry 
or  a  sloe  that  wud  rot  on  the  tree.  D  'ye 
know  Luke  thirteen  an'  nineteen?" 
77 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The  lady  opened  her  Bible,  but  before  she 
found  the  passage  Anna  was  reading  from 
her  old  yellow  backless  Bible  about  the  birds 
that  lodged  in  the  branches  of  the  trees. 

"  Did  they  pay  aany  rent  ?  "  she  asked  as 
she  closed  the  book.  "  Did  th'  foxes  have 
leases  fur  their  holes?" 

"  No." 

"  No,  indeed,  an'  d'  ye  think  He  cares  less 
fur  boys  than  birds?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

"  Oh,  no,  an'  ye  know  rightly  that  every 
thing  aroun'  Antrim  is  jist  a  demesne  full 
o'  pheasants  an'  rabbits  for  them  quality 
t'  shoot,  an'  we  git  thransported  if  we  get 
a  male  whin  we  're  hungry !  " 

The  lady  was  tender-hearted  and  full  of 
sympathy,  but  she  had  n't  traveled  along 
the  same  road  as  Anna  and  did  n't  know. 
Behind  the  screen  the  group  was  jubilant, 
but  when  they  saw  the  sympathy  on  the 
tract  woman's  face  they  sobered  and  looked 
sad. 

78 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  "  and  God  bless 
you,  Anna,"  and  Anna  replied,  "  God  bless 
you  kindly,  dear." 

When  Anna  went  behind  the  screen 
Jamie  grabbed  her  and  pressed  her  closely 
to  him.  "  Ye  're  a  match  for  John  Rae 
any  day,  ye  are  that,  woman!  " 

The  kettle  was  lowered  to  the  burning 
turf  and  there  was  a  round  of  tea.  The 
children  and  visitors  sat  on  the  floor. 

"  Now  that  ye  're  in  sich  fine  fettle, 
Anna,"  Jamie  said,  "  jist  toss  th'  cups  for 
us!" 

She  took  her  own  cup,  gave  it  a  peculiar 
twist  and  placed  it  mouth  down  on  the 
saucer.  Then  she  took  it  up  and  examined 
it  quizzically.  The  leaves  straggled  hiero- 
glyphically  over  the  inside.  The  group  got 
their  heads  together  and  looked  with  seri 
ous  faces  at  the  cup. 

"  There  's  a  ship  comin'  across  th'  sea  — 
an'  I  see  a  letther !  " 

"  It 's  for  me,  I  '11  bate,"  Jamie  said. 
79 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  No,   dear,  it 's   fur  me." 

"  Take  it,"  Jamie  said,  "  it 's  maybe 
a  dispossess  from  oul  Savage  th'  land 
lord!" 

She  took  Jamie's  cup. 

"  There  's  a  wee  bit  of  a  garden  wi'  a 
fence  aroun'  it." 

"  Wud  that  be  Savage  givin'  us  a  bit  of 
groun'  next  year  t'  raise  pirtas?" 

"  Maybe." 

"  Maybe  we  're  goin'  t'  flit,  where 
there  's  a  perch  or  two  wi'  th'  house ! " 

A  low  whistle  outside  attracted  my  at 
tention  and  I  stole  quietly  away.  It  was 
Sonny  Johnson,  the  baker's  son,  and  he  had 
a  little  bundle  under  his  arm.  We  boys 
were  discussing  a  very  serious  proposition 
when  Anna  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"  Morra,    Sonny!" 

"Morra,   Anna!" 

"  Aany  day  but  Sunday  he  may  go,  dear, 
but  not  th'  day." 

That  was  all  that  was  needed.  Sonny 
80 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

wanted  me  to  take  him  bird-nesting.     He 
had  the  price  in  the  bundle. 

"  If  I  give  ye  this  now"  he  said,  "  will 
ye  come  some  other  day  fur  nothin'  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

In  the  bundle  was  a  "  bap  " —  a  diamond- 
shaped,  flat,  penny  piece  of  bread.  I  re 
joined  the  cup-tossers. 

Another  whistle.  "  That 's  Arthur," 
Anna  said.  "  No  shinny  th'  day,  mind  ye." 

I  joined  Arthur  and  we  sat  on  the  wall 
of  Gainer's  pigsty.  We  had  n't  been  there 
long  when  "  Chisty  "  McDowell,  the  super 
intendent  of  the  Methodist  Sunday  School, 
was  seen  over  in  Scott's  garden  rounding 
up  his  scholars.  We  were  in  his  line  of 
vision  and  he  made  for  us.  We  saw  him 
coming  and  hid  in  the  inner  sanctum  of 
the  sty.  The  pig  was  in  the  little  outer 
yard.  "  Chisty  "  was  a  wiry  little  man  of 
great  zeal  but  little  humor.  It  was  his 
minor  talent  that  came  into  play  on  this 
occasion,  however. 

81 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Come,  boys,  come,"  he  said,  "  I  know 
ye  're  in  there.  We  've  got  a  beautiful  les 
son  to-day."  We  crouched  in  a  corner, 
still  silent. 

"  Come,  boys,"  he  urged,  "  don't  keep 
me  waiting.  The  lesson  is  about  the 
Prodigal  Son." 

"  Say  somethin',  Arthur,"  I  urged.  He 
did. 

"  T  hell  wi'  the  Prodigal  Son!  "  he  said, 
whereupon  the  little  man  jumped  the  low 
wall  into  the  outer  yard  and  drove  the  big, 
grunting,  wallowing  sow  in  on  top  of  us! 
Our  yells  could  be  heard  a  mile  away.  We 
came  out  and  were  collared  and  taken  off 
to  Sunday  School. 

When  I  returned,  the  cups  were  all 
tossed  and  the  visitors  had  gone,  but  Willie 
Withero  had  dropped  in  and  was  invited 
to  "  stap  "  for  tea.  He  was  our  most  wel 
come  visitor  and  there  was  but  one  house 
where  he  felt  at  home. 

"  Tay  "  that  evening  consisted  of  "  stir- 
82 


SUNDAY  IN  POGUE'S  ENTRY 

about,"  Sonny  Johnson's  unearned  bap 
and  buttermilk.  Willie  made  more  noise 
"  suppin'  "  his  stir-about  than  Jamie  did,  and 
I  said: 

"  Did  ye  iver  hear  ov  th'  cow  that  got 
her  foot  stuck  in  a  bog,  Willie?" 

"No,   boy,  what  did   she  do?" 

"  She  got  it  out ! "  A  stern  look  from 
Jamie  prevented  the  application. 

"Tell  me,  Willie,"  Anna  said,  "is  it 
thrue  that  ye  can  blink  a  cow  so  that  she 
can  give  no  milk  at  all?" 

"  It 's  jist  a  hoax,  Anna,  some  oul  bitch 
said  it  an'  th'  others  cackle  it  from  doore 
to  doore.  I  've  naither  wife  nor  wain, 
chick  nor  chile,  I  ate  th'  bread  ov  loneliness 
an'  keep  m'  own  company  an'  jist  bekase  I 
don't  blether  wi'  th'  gossoons  th'  think  I  'm 
uncanny.  Is  n't  that  it,  Jamie,  eh !  " 

"  Aye,  ye  're  right,  Willie,  it 's  quare  what 
bletherin'  fools  there  are  in  this  town ! " 

Willie  held  his  full  spoon  in  front  of  his 
mouth  while  he  replied: 

83 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  It 's  you  that 's  the  dacent  maan, 
Jamie,  'deed  it  is." 

"  The  crocks  are  empty,  dear,"  Anna  said 
to  me.  After  "  tay,"  to  the  town  well  I 
went  for  the  night's  supply  of  water. 
When  I  returned  the  dishes  were  washed 
and  on  the  dresser.  The  floor  was  swept 
and  the  family  were  swappin'  stories  with 
Withero.  Sunday  was  ever  the  day  of 
Broth  and  Romance.  Anna  made  the  best 
broth  and  told  the  best  stories.  No  Sunday 
was  complete  without  a  good  story.  On 
the  doorstep  that  night  she  told  one  of  her 
best.  As  she  finished  the  church  bell 
tolled  the  curfew.  Then  the  days  of  the 
month  were  tolled  off. 

"  Sammy's  arm  is  gey  shtrong  th'  night," 
Willie  said. 

"  Aye,"  Jamie  said,  "  an'  th'  oul  bell 's  got 
a  fine  ring." 


84 


CHAPTER  V 
HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

HEN  Anna  had  to  choose 
between  love  and  religion  — 
the  religion  of  an  institu 
tion  —  she  chose  love.  Her 
faith  in  God  remained  un 
shaken,  but  her  methods  of  approach  were 
the  forms  of  love  rather  than  the  symbols 
or  ceremonies  of  a  sect.  Twelve  times  in 
a  quarter  of  a  century  she  appeared  publicly 
in  the  parish  church.  Each  time  it  was  to 
lay  on  the  altar  of  religion  the  fruit  of  her 
love.  Nine-tenths  of  those  twelve  congre 
gations  would  not  have  known  her  if  they 
had  met  her  on  the  street  One-tenth  were 
those  who  occupied  the  charity  pews. 

Religion   in   our  town   had   arrayed   the 
inhabitants    into    two   hostile   camps.     She 
85 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

never  had  any  sympathy  with  the  fight. 
She  was  neutral.  She  pointed  out  to  the 
fanatics  around  her  that  the  basis  of  re 
ligion  was  love  and  that  religion  that  ex 
pressed  itself  in  faction  fights  must  have 
hate  at  the  bottom  of  it,  not  love.  She  had 
a  philosophy  of  religion  that  worked.  To 
the  sects  it  would  have  been  rank  heresy, 
but  the  sects  did  n't  know  she  existed  and 
those  who  were  benefited  by  her  quaint  and 
unique  application  of  religion  to  life  were 
almost  as  obscure  as  she  was.  I  was  the 
first  to  discover  her  "  heresy  "  and  oppose 
it.  She  lived  to  see  me  repent  of  my  folly. 
In  a  town  of  two  thousand  people  less 
than  two  hundred  were  familiar  with  her 
face,  and  half  of  them  knew  her  because  at 
one  time  or  another  they  had  been  to 
"  Jamie's "  to  have  their  shoes  made  or 
mended,  or  because  they  lived  in  our  imme 
diate  vicinity.  Of  the  hundred  who  knew 
her  face,  less  than  half  of  them  were  familiar 
enough  to  call  her  "  Anna."  Of  all  the  peo- 
86 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

pie  who  had  lived  in  Antrim  as  long  as  she 
had,  she  was  the  least  known. 

No  feast  or  function  could  budge  her  out 
of  her  corner.  There  came  a  time  when 
her  family  became  as  accustomed  to  her  re 
fusal  as  she  had  to  her  environment  and 
we  ceased  to  coax  or  urge  her.  She  never 
attended  a  picnic,  a  soiree  or  a  dance  in 
Antrim.  One  big  opportunity  for  social 
intercourse  amongst  the  poor  is  a  wake  — 
she  never  attended  a  wake.  She  often  took 
entire  charge  of  a  wake  for  a  neighbor,  but 
she  directed  the  affair  from  her  corner. 

She  had  a  slim  sort  of  acquaintance  with 
three  intellectual  men.  They  were  John 
Gait,  William  Green  and  John  Gordon 
Holmes,  vicars  in  that  order  of  the  parish 
of  Antrim.  They  visited  her  once  a  year 
and  at  funerals  —  the  funerals  of  her  own 
dead.  None  of  them  knew  her.  They 
hadn't  time,  but  there  were  members  of 
our  own  family  who  knew  as  little  of  her 
mind  as  they  did. 

87 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

She  did  not  seek  obscurity.  It  seemed  to 
have  sought  and  found  her.  One  avenue 
of  escape  after  another  was  closed  and  she 
settled  down  at  last  to  her  lot  in  the  chim 
ney-corner.  Her  hopes,  beliefs  and  aspi 
rations  were  expressed  in  what  she  did 
rather  than  in  what  she  said,  though  she 
said  much,  much  that  is  still  treasured,  long 
after  she  has  passed  away. 

Henry  Lecky  was  a  young  fisherman  on 
Lough  Neagh.  He  was  a  great  favorite 
with  the  children  of  the  entries.  He  loved 
to  bring  us  a  small  trout  each  when  he  re 
turned  after  a  long  fishing  trip.  He  died 
suddenly,  and  Eliza,  his  mother,  came  at 
once  for  help  to  the  chimney  corner. 

"  He  's  gone,  Anna,  he  's  gone !  "  she 
said  as  she  dropped  on  the  floor  beside 
Anna. 

"  An'  ye  want  me  t'1  do  for  yer  dead 
what  ye  'd  do  for  mine,  'Liza  ?  " 

"  Aye,  aye,  Anna,  yer  God's  angel  to  yer 
frien's." 

88 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"  Go  an'  fetch  'Liza  Cordon,  Jane 
Burrows  and  Marget  Houston ! "  was  An 
na's  order  to  Jamie. 

The  women  came  at  once.  The  plan 
was  outlined,  the  labor  apportioned  and 
they  went  to  work.  Jamie  went  for  the 
carpenter  and  hired  William  Gainer  to  dig 
the  grave.  Eliza  Conlon  made  the  shroud, 
Jane  Burrows  and  Anna  washed  and  laid 
out  the  corpse,  and  Mrs.  Houston  kept 
Eliza  in  Anna's  bed  until  the  preliminaries 
for  the  wake  were  completed. 

"  Ye  can  go  now,  Mrs.  Houston,"  Anna 
said,  "  an'  I  '11  mind  'Liza." 

"  The  light 's  gone  out  o'  m'  home  an' 
darkness  fills  m'  heart,  Anna,  an'  it 's  the 
sun  that  '11  shine  for  m'  no  more !  Ochone, 
ochone ! " 

"  'Liza  dear,  I  've  been  where  ye  are 
now,  too  often  not  t'  know  that  aanything 
that  aanybody  says  is  jist  like  spittin'  at 
a  burnin'  house  t'  put  it  out.  Yer  boy  's 
gone  —  we  can't  bring  'im  back.  Fate  's 
89 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

cut  yer  heart  in  two  an'  oul  Docther  Time 
an'  the  care  of  God  are  about  the  only 
shure  cures  goin'." 

"  Cud  n't  the  ministher  help  a  little  if  he 
was  here,  Anna?  " 

"  If  ye  think  so  I  '11  get  him,  'Liza!  " 

"  He  might  put  th'  love  of  God  in  me !  " 

"  Puttin'  th'  love  of  God  in  ye  is  n't  like 
stuffin'  yer  mouth  with  a  pirta,  'Liza!" 

"  That 's  so,  it  is,  but  he  might  thry, 
Anna!" 

"  Well,  ye'll  haave  'im." 

Mr.  Green  came  and  gave  'Liza  what  con 
solation  he  could.  He  read  the  appropriate 
prayer,  repeated  the  customary  words.  He 
did  it  all  in  a  tender  tone  and  departed. 

"  Ye  feel  fine  afther  that,  don't  ye, 
'Liza?" 

"  Aye,  but  Henry  's  dead  an'  will  no  come 
back!" 

"  Did  ye  expect  Mr.  Green  t'  bring  'im  ?  " 

"  No." 

90 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"What  did  ye  expect,  'Liza?" 

"I  dunno." 

"  Shure  ye  don't.  Ye  did  n't  expect 
aany thing  an'  ye  got  jist  what  ye  expected. 
Ah,  wuman,  God  is  n't  a  printed  book  t' 
be  carried  aroun'  b'  a  man  in  fine  clothes, 
nor  a  gold  cross  t'  be  danglin'  at  the  watch 
chain  ov  a  priest." 

"  What  is  he,  Anna,  yer  wiser  nor  me ; 
tell  a  poor  craither  in  throuble,  do ! " 

"  If  ye  '11  lie  very  quiet,  'Liza  —  jist 
cross  yer  hands  and  listen  —  if  ye  do,  I  '11 
thry!" 

"  Aye,  bless  ye,  I  '11  blirt  no  more ;  go 
on!" 

"  Wee  Henry  is  over  there  in  his  shroud, 
isn't  he?" 

"  Aye,  God  rest  his  soul." 

"He'll  rest  Henry's,  'Liza,  but  He'll 
haave  the  divil's  own  job  wi'  yours  if  ye 
don't  help  'im." 

"  Och,  aye,  thin  I  '11  be  at  pace." 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  As  I  was  say  in',  Henry's  body  is  jist 
as  it  was  yesterday,  ban's,  legs,  heart  an' 
head,  aren't  they?  " 

"  Aye,  'cept  cold  an'  stiff." 
"What's   missin'    then?" 
"  His  blessed  soul,  God  love  it." 
"  That 's    right.     Now    when    the    spirit 
laves  th'  body  we  say  th'  body  's  dead,  but 
it 's  jist  a  partnership  gone  broke,  wan  goes 
up  an'  wan  goes  down.     I  've  always  thot 
that    kissin'    a    corpse    was    like    kissin'    a 
cage  whin  the  bird  's  dead  —  there 's  noth- 
in'    in    it.     Now    answer    me    this,    'Liza 
Lecky :     Is  Henry  a  livin'  spirit  or  a  dead 
body?" 

"  A  livin'  spirit,  God  prosper  it." 
"  Aye,  an'  God  is  th'  same  kind,  but 
Henry's  can  be  at  but  wan  point  at  once, 
while  God's  is  everywhere  at  once.  He  's 
so  big  He  can  cover  the  world  an'  so  small 
He  can  get  in  be  a  crack  in  th'  glass  or  a 
kayhole." 

"  I  've  got  four  panes  broke,  Anna!  " 
92 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"  Well,  they  're  jist  like  four  doores." 

"  Feeries  can  come  in  that  way  too." 

"  Aye,  but  feeries  can't  sew  up  a  broken 
heart,  acushla." 

"  Where  's  Henry's  soul,  Anna  ?  "  Eliza 
asked,  as  if  the  said  soul  was  a  naavy  over 
whom  Anna  stood  as  gaffer. 

"  It  may  be  here  at  yer  bedhead  now,  but 
yer  more  in  need  of  knowin'  where  God's 
Spirit  is,  '"Liza." 

Jamie  entered  with  a  cup  of  tea. 

"  For  a  throubled  heart,"  he  said, 
"  there  's  nothin'  in  this  world  like  a  rale 
good  cup  o'  tay." 

"  God  bless  ye  kindly,  Jamie,  I  Ve  a  sore 
heart  an'  I  'm  as  dhry  as  a  whistle." 

"  Now  Jamie,  put  th'  cups  down  on  th* 
bed,"  Anna  said,  "  an'  then  get  out,  like  a 
good  bhoy ! " 

"  I  want  a  crack  wi'  Anna,  Jamie," 
Eliza  said. 

"  Well,  ye  '11  go  farther  an'  fare  worse 
—  she  's  a  buffer  at  that !  " 

93 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Eliza  sat  up  in  bed  while  she  drank  the 
tea.  When  she  drained  her  cup  she  handed 
it  over  to  Anna. 

"  Toss  it,  Anna,  maybe  there  's  good  luck 
in  it  fur  me." 

"  No,  dear,  it 's  a  hoax  at  best;  jist  now 
it  wud  be  pure  blasphemy.  Ye  don't  need 
luck,  ye  need  at  this  minute  th'  help  of 
God." 

"  Och,  aye,  ye 're  right;  jist  talk  t'  me 
ov  Him." 

"  I  was  talkin'  about  His  Spirit  when 
Jamie  came  in." 

"  Aye." 

"  It  comes  in  as  many  ways  as  there  's 
need  fur  its  comin',  an'  that 's  quite  a 
wheen." 

"  God  knows." 

"  Ye  '11  haave  t'  be  calm,  dear,  before 
He  'd  come  t'  ye  in  aany  way." 

"  Aye,  but  I  'm  at  pace  now,  Anna,  am  n't 
I?" 

"  Well,  now,  get  out  here  an'  get  down 
94 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

on  th'  floor  on  yer  bare  knees  and  haave 
a  talk  wi'  'im." 

Eliza  obeyed  implicitly.  Anna  knelt 
beside  her. 

"  I  don't  know  what  t'  say." 

"  Say  afther  me,"  and  Anna  told  of  an 
empty  home  and  a  sore  heart.  When  she 
paused,  Eliza  groaned. 

"  Now  tell  'im  to  lay  'is  hand  on  yer 
tired  head  in  token  that  He 's  wi'  ye  in 
yer  disthress ! " 

Even  to  a  dull  intellect  like  Eliza's  the 
suggestion  was  startling. 

"Wud  He  do  it,  Anna?" 

"  Well,  jist  ask  'im  an'  then  wait  an' 
see!" 

In  faltering  tones  Eliza  made  her  request 
and  waited.  As  gently  as  falls  an  autumn 
leaf  Anna  laid  her  hand  on  Eliza's  head, 
held  it  there  for  a  moment  and  removed 
it. 

"  Oh,  oh,  oh,  He  's  done  it,  Anna,  He  's 
done  it,  glory  be  t'  God,  He's  done  it!" 

95 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Rise  up,  dear,"  Anna  said,  "  an'  tell 
me  about  it." 

"  There  was  a  nice  feelin'  went  down 
through  me,  Anna,  an'  th'  han'  was  jist 
like  yours ! " 

"  The  han'  was  mine,  but  it  was  God's 
too." 

Anna  wiped  her  spectacles  and  took  Eliza 
over  close  to  the  window  while  she  read 
a  text  of  the  Bible.  "Listen,  dear," 
Anna  said,  "  God's  arm  is  not  shortened." 

"  Did  ye  think  that  an  arm  could  be 
stretched  from  beyont  th'  clouds  t'  Pogue's 
entry?" 

"  Aye." 

"  No,  dear,  but  God  takes  a  han'  where 
ever  He  can  find  it  and  jist  diz  what 
He  likes  wi'  it.  Sometimes  He  takes  a 
bishop's  and  lays  it  on  a  child's  head  in 
benediction,  then  He  takes  the  han'  of  a 
dochter  t'  relieve  pain,  th'  han'  of  a  mother 
t'  guide  her  chile,  an'  sometimes  He  takes 
th'  han'  of  an  aul  craither  like  me  t'  give 
96 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

a  bit  comfort  to  a  neighbor.  But  they  're 
all  han's  touch't  be  His  Spirit,  an'  His 
Spirit  is  everywhere  lukin'  fur  han's  to 
use." 

Eliza  looked  at  her  open-mouthed  for  a 
moment. 

"  Tell  me,  Anna,"  she  said,  as  she  put 
her  hands  on  her  shoulders,  "  was  th'  han' 
that  bro't  home  trouts  fur  th'  childther 
God's  han'  too?" 

"  Aye,  'deed  it  was." 

"  Oh,  glory  be  t'  God  —  thin  I  'm  at  pace 
—  is  n't  it  gran'  t'  think  on  —  is  n't  it 
now  ?  " 

Eliza  Conlon  abruptly  terminated  the 
conversation  by  announcing  that  all  was 
ready  for  the  wake. 

"  Ah,  but  it 's  the  purty  corpse  he  is," 
she  said,  " — luks  jist  like  life!"  The 
three  women  went  over  to  the  Lecky  home. 
It  was  a  one-room  place.  The  big  bed 
stood  in  the  corner.  The  corpse  was 
"  laid  out "  with  the  hands  clasped. 
97 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

The  moment  Eliza  entered  she  rushed 
to  the  bed  and  fell  on  her  knees  beside  it. 
She  was  quiet,  however,  and  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause  she  raised  her  head  and  laying 
a  hand  on  the  folded  hands  said :  "  Ah, 
han's  ov  God  t'  be  so  cold  an'  still ! " 

Anna  stood  beside  her  until  she  thought 
she  had  stayed  long  enough,  then  led  her 
gently  away.  From  that  moment  Anna 
directed  the  wake  and  the  funeral  from  her 
chimney-corner. 

"  Here  's  a  basket  ov  flowers  for  Henry, 
Anna,  the  childther  gethered  thim  th'  day," 
Maggie  McKinstry  said  as  she  laid  them 
down  on  the  hearthstones  beside  Anna. 

"Ye've  got  some  time,  Maggie?" 

"  Oh,  aye." 

"  Make  a  chain  ov  them  an'  let  it  go  all 
th'  way  aroun'  th'  body,  they  '11  look  purty 
that  way,  don't  ye  think  so  ?  " 

"  Illigant,  indeed,  to  be  shure !  'Deed 
I  '11  do  it."  And  it  was  done. 

To  Eliza  Conlon  was  given  the  task  of 
98 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

providing  refreshments.  I  say  "  task," 
for  after  the  carpenter  was  paid  for  the 
coffin  and  Jamie  Scott  for  the  hearse  there 
was  only  six  shillings  left. 

"  Get  whey  for  th'  childther/'  Anna  said, 
and  "  childther  "  in  this  catalog  ran  up  into 
the  twenties. 

For  the  older  "  childther "  there  was 
something  from  Mrs.  Lorimer's  public 
house  —  something  that  was  kept  under 
cover  and  passed  around  late,  and  later 
still  diluted  and  passed  around  again. 
Concerning  this  item  Anna  said:  "  Wather 
it  well,  dear,  an'  save  their  wits;  they've 
got  little  enough  now,  God  save  us  all !  " 

"  Anna,"  said  Sam  Johnson,  "  I  am  told 
you  have  charge  of  Henry's  wake.  Is 
there  anything  I  can  do  ?  " 

Sam  was  the  tall,  imperious  precentor 
of  the  Mill  Row  meeting-house.  He  was 
also  the  chief  baker  of  the  town  and 
"  looked  up  to "  in  matters  relating  to 
morals  as  well  as  loaves. 

99 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Mister  Gwynn  has  promised  t'  read  a 
chapther,  Mister  Johnson.  He  '11  read, 
maybe,  the  fourteenth  of  John.  If  he  diz, 
tell  him  t'  go  aisy  over  th'  twelth  verse  an' 
explain  that  th'  works  He  did  can  be  done 
in  Antrim  by  any  poor  craither  who  's  got 
th'  Spirit." 

Sam  straightened  up  to  his  full  height 
and  in  measured  words  said: 

"  Ye  know,  no  doubt,  Anna,  that  Mis- 
ther  Gwynn  is  a  Churchman  an'  I  'm  a 
Presbyterian.  He  would  n't  take  kindly 
to  a  hint  from  a  Mill  Row  maan,  I  fear, 
especially  on  a  disputed  text." 

"  Well,  dear  knows  if  there  's  aanything 
this  oul  world  needs  more  than  another  it 's 
an  undisputed  text.  Could  n't  ye  find  us 
wan,  Misther  Johnson?" 

"  All  texts  are  disputed,"  he  said,  "  but 
there  are  texts  not  in  dispute." 

"  I  think  I  could  name  wan  at  laste, 
Mister  Johnson." 

"  Maybe." 

100 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"  'Deed  no,  not  maybe  at  all,  but  sure- 
be.  Jamie  dear,  get  m'  th'  Bible  if  ye 
plaze." 

While  Jamie  got  the  Bible  she  wiped 
her  glasses  and  complained  in  a  gentle 
voice  about  the  "  mortal  pity  of  it "  that 
texts  were  pins  for  Christians  to  stick  in 
each  other's  flesh. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  " '  Th'  poor  ye 
haave  always  with  ye.' ' 

"  Aye,"  Sam  said,  "  an'  how  true  it  is." 

"  'Deed  it 's  true,  but  who  did  He  mane 
by  '  ye  '  ?  " 

"  Th'  world,  I  suppose." 

"  Not  all  th'  world,  by  a  spoonful,  but  a 
wheen  of  thim  like  Sandy  Somerville, 
who  's  got  a  signboard  in  front  of  his  back 
that  tells  he  ates  too  much  while  the  rest 
of  us  haave  backbones  that  could  as  aisily 
be  felt  before  as  behine!" 

"  So  that's  what  you  call  an  undisputed 
text?" 

She  looked  over  the  rim  of  her  spec- 
101 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

tacles  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
then  said,  slowly: 

"  Ochane  —  w-e-1-1  —  tell  Mister  Gwynn 
t'  read  what  he  likes,  it  '11  mane  th'  same 
aanyway." 

Kitty  Coyle  came  in.  Henry  and  she 
were  engaged.  They  had  known  each 
other  since  childhood.  Her  eyes  were  red 
with  weeping.  Henry's  mother  led  her  by 
the  arm. 

"  Anna,  dear,"  Eliza  said,  "  she  needs 
ye  as  much  as  me.  Give  'er  a  bit  ov 
comfort." 

They  went  into  the  little  bedroom  and 
the  door  was  shut.  Jamie  stood  as  sentry. 

When  they  came  out  young  Johnny 
Murdock,  Henry's  chum,  was  sitting  on 
Jamie's  workbench. 

"  I  want  ye  t'  take  good  care  of  Kitty 
th'  night,  Johnny.  Keep  close  t'  'er  and 
when  th'  moon  comes  out  take  'er  down 
the  garden  t'  get  fresh  air.  It  '11  be  stuffy 
wi'  all  th'  people  an'  the  corpse  in  Lecky's." 
1 02 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  all  I  can." 
To  Kitty  she  said,  "  I  've  asked  Johnny  t' 
keep  gey  close  t'  ye  till  it 's  all  over,  Kitty. 
Ye '11  understand." 

"Aye,"  Kitty  said,  "Henry  loved  'im 
more  'n  aany  maan  on  th'  Lough !  " 

"Had  tay  yit?"  Willie  Withero  asked 
as  he  blundered  in  on  the  scene. 

"  No,  Willie,  'deed  we  haave  n't  thought 
ov  it!" 

"  Well,  t'  haave  yer  bowels  think  yef 
throat 's  cut  is  n't  sauncy !  "  he  said. 

The  fire  was  low  and  the  kettle  cold. 

"Here,  Johnny,"  Withero  said,  "  jist 
run  over  t'  Farren's  for  a  ha'p'orth  ov  turf 
an'  we  '11  haave  a  cup  o'  tay  fur  these  folks 
who  're  workin'  overtime  palaverin'  about 
th'  dead!  Moses  alive,  wan  corpse  is 
enough  fur  a  week  or  two  —  don't  kill  us 
all  entirely!" 

Shortly  after  midnight  Anna  went  over 
to  see  how  things  were  at  the  wake.  They 
told  her  of  the  singing  of  the  children,  of 
103 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

the  beautiful  chapther  by  Misther  Gwynn, 
and  the  "  feelin' 5:  by  Graham  Shannon. 
The  whey  was  sufficient  and  nearly  every 
body  had  "  a  dhrap  o'  th'  craither "  and 
a  bite  of  fadge. 

"  Ah,  Anna  dear,"  Eliza  said,  "  shure 
it 's  yerself  that  knows  how  t'  make  a  moi'ty 
go  th'  longest  distance  over  dhry  throats 
an'  empty  stomachs!  'Deed  it  was  a  re 
vival  an'  a  faste  in  wan,  an'  th'  only  pity 
is  that  poor  Henry  cud  n't  enjoy  it!" 

The  candles  were  burned  low  in  the 
sconces,  the  flowers  around  the  corpse  had 
faded,  a  few  tongues,  loosened  by  stimu 
lation,  were  still  wagging,  but  the  laughter 
had  died  down  and  the  stories  were  all 
told.  There  had  been  a  hair-raising  ghost 
story  that  had  sent  a  dozen  home  before 
the  respectable  time  of  departure.  The 
empty  stools  had  been  carried  outside  and 
were  largely  occupied  by  lovers. 

Anna  drew  Eliza's  head  to  her  breast 
and  pressing  it  gently  to  her  said,  "  I  'm 
104 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

proud  of  ye,  dear,  ye  've  borne  up  bravely ! 
Now  I  'm  goin'  t'  haave  a  few  winks  in 
tlv  corner,  for  there  '11  be  much  to  do  th' 
morra." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  died  on  her  lips 
when  Kitty  Coyle  gave  vent  to  a  scream 
of  terror  that  brought  the  mourners  to  the 
door  and  terrified  those  outside. 

"What  ails  ye,  in  th'  name  of  God?" 
Anna  asked.  She  was  too  terrified  to 
speak  at  once.  The  mourners  crowded 
closely  together. 

"  Watch ! "  Kitty  said  as  she  pointed 
with  her  finger  toward  Conlon's  pigsty. 
Johnny  Murdock  had  his  arm  around 
Kitty's  waist  to  keep  her  steady  and  as 
sure  her  of  protection.  They  watched  and 
waited.  It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night, 
and  save  for  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
houses  and  hedges  as  clear  as  day. 
Tensely  nerve-strung,  open-mouthed  and 
wild-eyed  stood  the  group  for  what  seemed 
to  them  hours.  In  a  few  minutes  a  white 
105 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

figure  was  seen  emerging  from  the  pigsty. 
The  watchers  were  transfixed  in  terror. 
Most  of  them  clutched  at  each  other  nerv 
ously.  Old  Mrs.  Houston,  the  midwife 
who  had  told  the  ghost  story  at  the  wake, 
dropped  in  a  heap.  Peter  Hannen  and 
Jamie  Wilson  carried  her  indoors. 

The  white  figure  stood  on  the  pathway 
leading  through  the  gardens  for  a  moment 
and  then  returned  to  the  sty.  Most  of 
the  watchers  fled  to  their  homes.  Some 
did  n't  move  because  they  had  lost  the 
power  to  do  so.  Others  just  stood. 

"  It 's  a  hoax  an'  a  joke,"  Anna  said. 
"  Now  wan  of  you  men  go  down  there  an' 
see!" 

No  one  moved.  Every  eye  was  fixed  on 
the  pigsty.  A  long-drawn-out,  mournful 
cry  was  heard.  It  was  all  that  tradition 
had  described  as  the  cry  of  the  Banshee. 

"The  Banshee  it  is!  Ah,  merciful  God, 
which  ov  us  is  t'  b'  tuk,  I  wondther?"  It 
was  Eliza  who  spoke,  and  she  continued, 
1 06 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

directing  her  talk  to  Anna,  "  An'  it 's  th' 
long  arm  ov  th'  Almighty  it  is  raychin' 
down  t'  give  us  a  warnin',  don't  ye  think 
so  now,  Anna?  " 

"If  it 's  wan  arm  of  God,  I  know  where 
th'  other  is,  'Liza ! "  Addressing  the  ter 
ror-stricken  watchers,  Anna  said: 

"Stand  here,  don't  budge,  wan  of  ye!" 
Along  the  sides  of  the  houses  in  the  deep 
shadow  Anna  walked  until  she  got  to  the 
end  of  the  row;  just  around  the  corner 
stood  the  sty.  In  the  shadow  she  stood 
with  her  back  to  the  wall  and  waited.  The 
watchers  were  breathless  and  what  they 
saw  a  minute  later  gave  them  a  syncope 
of  the  heart  that  they  never  forgot.  They 
saw  the  white  figure  emerge  again  and 
they  saw  Anna  stealthily  approach  and 
enter  into  what  they  thought  was  a  struggle 
with  it.  They  gasped  when  they  saw  her 
a  moment  later  bring  the  white  figure  along 
with  her.  As  she  came  nearer  it  looked 
limp  and  pliable,  for  it  hung  over  her  arm. 
107 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"It's  that  divil,  Ben  Green!"  she  said 
as  she  threw  a  white  sheet  at  their  feet. 

"Hell  roast  'im  on  a  brandther!"  said 
one. 

"  The  divil  gut  'im  like  a  herrin' !  "  said 
another.  Four  of  the  younger  men, 
having  been  shamed  by  their  own  cow 
ardice,  made  a  raid  on  the  sty,  and  next 
day  when  Ben  came  to  the  funeral  he 
looked  very  much  the  worse  for  wear. 

Ben  was  a  friend  of  Henry's  and  a  good 
deal  of  a  practical  joker.  Anna  heard  of 
what  happened  and  she  directed  that  he  be 
one  of  the  four  men  to  lower  the  coffin 
into  the  grave,  as  a  moiety  of  consolation. 
Johnny  Murdock  made  strenuous  objec 
tions  to  this. 

"Why?"    Anna   asked. 

"  Bekase,"  he  said,  "  shure  th'  divil 
nearly  kilt  Kitty  be  th'  fright !  " 

"  But  she  was  purty  comfortable  th' 
rest  of  th'  time?" 

"  Oh,  aye." 

108 


HIS  ARM  IS  NOT  SHORTENED 

"  Ye  lifted  a  gey  big  burden  from  'er 
heart  last  night,  didn't  ye,  Johnny?" 

"  Aye;  an'  if  ye  won't  let  on  I  '11  tell  ye, 
Anna."  He  came  close  and  whispered  into 
her  ear :  "  Am  goin'  t'  thry  danged  hard 
t'  take  th'  heart  as  well  as  th'  throuble ! " 

"What  diz  Kitty  think?" 

"  She  's  switherin'." 


109 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

NNA  was  an ,  epistle  to 
Pogue's  entry  and  my  only 
excuse  for  dragging  Hughie 
Thornton  into  this  narra 
tive  is  that  he  was  a 
commentary  on  Anna.  He  was  only  once 
in  our  house,  but  that  was  an  "  occasion," 
and  for  many  years  we  dated  things  that 
happened  about  that  time  as  "  about," 
"  before  "  or  "  after  "  "  the  night  Hughie 
stayed  in  the  pigsty." 

We  lived  in  the  social  cellar;  Hughie  led 
a  precarious  existence  in  the  sub-cellar. 
He  was  the  beggar-man  of  several 
towns,  of  which  Antrim  was  the  largest. 
He  was  a  short,  thick-set  man  with  a  pock 
marked  face,  eyes  like  a  mouse,  eyebrows 
no 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

that  looked  like  well-worn  scrubbing 
brushes,  and  a  beard  cropped  close  with  scis 
sors  or  a  knife.  He  wore  two  coats,  two 
pairs  of  trousers  and  several  waistcoats  — 
all  at  the  same  time,  winter  and  summer. 
His  old  battered  hat  looked  like  a  crow's 
nest.  His  wardrobe  was  so  elaborately 
patched  that  practically  nothing  at  all  of  the 
originals  remained;  even  then  patches  of  his 
old,  withered  skin  could  be  seen  at  various 
angles.  The  thing  that  attracted  my  atten 
tion  more  than  anything  else  about  him  was 
his  pockets.  He  had  dozens  of  them  and 
they  were  always  full  of  bread  crusts,  scraps 
of  meat  and  cooking  utensils,  for  like  a 
snail  he  carried  his  domicile  on  his  back. 
His  boots  looked  as  if  a  blacksmith  had 
made  them,  and  for  whangs  (laces)  he 
used  strong  wire. 

He    was    preeminently    a    citizen   of    the 

world.     He  had   not   lived   in   a   house   in 

half    a    century.     A    haystack    in    summer 

and   a  pigsty  in   winter   sufficed  him.     He 

in 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

had  a  deep  graphophone  voice  and  when 
he  spoke  the  sound  was  like  the  creaking 
of  a  barn  door  on  rusty  hinges.  When  he 
came  to  town  he  was  to  us  what  a  circus 
is  to  boys  of  more  highly  favored  commun 
ities.  There  were  several  interpretations 
of  Hughie.  One  was  that  he  was  a  "  sent 
back."  That  is,  he  had  gone  to  the  gates 
of  a  less  cumbersome  life  and  Peter  or  the 
porter  at  the  other  gate  had  sent  him  back 
to  perform  some  unfulfilled  task.  Another 
was  that  he  was  a  nobleman  of  an  ancient 
line  who  was  wandering  over  the  earth  in 
disguise  in  search  of  the  Grail.  A  third, 
and  the  most  popular  one,  was  that  he  was 
just  a  common  beggar  and  an  unmitigated 
liar.  The  second  interpretation  was  made 
more  plausible  by  the  fact  that  he  rather 
enjoyed  his  reputation  as  a  liar,  for  wise 
ones  said:  "He's  jist  lettin'  on." 

On  one  of  his  semi-annual  visits  to 
Antrim,  Hughie  got  into  a  barrel  of  trouble. 
He  was  charged  —  rumor  charged  him  — 

112 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

with  having  blinked  a  widow's  cow.  It 
was  noised  abroad  that  he  had  been  caught 
in  the  act  of  "  skellyin'  "  at  her.  The  story 
gathered  in  volume  as  it  went  from  mouth 
to  mouth  until  it  crystallized  as  a  crime  in 
the  minds  of  half  a  dozen  of  our  toughest 
citizens  —  boys  who  hankered  for  excite 
ment  as  a  hungry  stomach  hankers  for 
food.  He  was  finally  rounded  up  in  a 
field  adjoining  the  Mill  Row  meeting 
house  and  pelted  with  stones.  I  was 
of  the  "  gallery "  that  watched  the  fun. 
I  watched  until  a  track  of  blood  streaked 
down  Hughie's  pock-marked  face.  Then 
I  ran  home  and  told  Anna. 

"Ma!"  I  yelled  breathlessly,  "they're 
killin'  Hughie  Thornton !  " 

Jamie  threw  his  work  down  and  accom 
panied  Anna  over  the  little  garden  patches 
to  the  wall  that  protected  the  field. 
Through  the  gap  they  went  and  found  poor 
Hughie  in  bad  shape.  He  was  crying  and 
he  cried  like  a  brass  band.  His  head  and 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

face  had  been  cut  in  several  places  and  his 
face  and  clothes  were  red. 

They  brought  him  home.  A  crowd  fol 
lowed  and  filled  Pogue's  entry,  a  crowd 
that  was  about  equally  divided  in  sentiment 
against  Hughie  and  against  the  toughs. 

I  borrowed  a  can  of  water  from  Mrs. 
McGrath  and  another  from  the  Gainers  and 
Anna  washed  old  Hughie's  wounds  in 
Jamie's  tub.  It  was  a  great  operation. 
Hughie  of  course  refused  to  divest  him 
self  of  any  clothing,  and  as  she  said  after 
wards  it  was  like  "  dhressin'  th'  woonds  of 
a  haystack." 

One  of  my  older  brothers  came  home 
and  cleared  the  entry,  and  we  sat  down  to 
our  stir-about  and  buttermilk.  An  extra 
cup  of  good  hot  strong  tea  was  the  finishing 
touch  to  the  Samaritan  act.  Jamie  had 
scant  sympathy  with  the  beggar-man.  He 
had  always  called  him  hard  names  in  lan 
guage  not  lawful  to  utter,  and  even  in 
this  critical  exigency  was  not  over  tender. 
114 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

Anna  saw  a  human  need  and  tried  to  sup 
ply  it. 

"Did  ye  blink  th'  cow?"  Jamie  asked 
as  we  sat  around  the  candle  after  supper. 

"  Divil  a  blink,"  said  Hughie. 

"  What  did  th'  raise  a  hue-an'-cry  fur?  " 
was  the  next  question. 

"  I  was  fixin'  m'  galluses,  over  Craw 
ford's  hedge,  whin  a  gomeral  luked  over 
an'  says,  says  he: 

"'Morra,  Hughie!' 

"  '  Morra,  bhoy ! '  says  I. 

"'Luks  like  snow,'  says  he  (it  was  in 
July). 

" '  Aye,'   says   I,   '  we  're  goin'  t'   haave 
more  weather ;  th'   sky 's  in  a  bad  art ' 
(direction). 

Anna  arose,  put  her  little  Sunday  shawl 
around  her  shoulders,  tightened  the  strings 
of  her  cap  under  her  chin  and  went  out. 
We  gasped  with  astonishment!  What  on 
earth  could  she  be  going  out  for?  She 
never  went  out  at  night.  Everybody  came 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

to  her.  There  was  something  so  myste 
rious  in  that  sudden  exit  that  we  just  looked 
at  our  guest  without  understanding  a  word 
he  said. 

Jamie  opened  up  another  line  of  inquiry. 

'  Th'  say  yer  a  terrible  liar,  Hughie." 

"  I  am  that,"  Hughie  said  without  the 
slightest  hesitation.  "  I  'm  th'  champ'yun 
liar  ov  County  Anthrim." 

"How  did  ye  get  th'  belt?" 

"  Aisy,  as  aisy  as  tellin'  th'  thruth." 

"  That 's  harder  nor  ye  think." 

"So's  lyin',  Jamie!" 

"  Tell  us  how  ye  won  th'  champ'yunship." 

"  Whin  I  finish  this  dhraw." 

He  took  a  live  coal  and  stoked  up  the 
bowl  of  his  old  cutty-pipe.  The  smacking 
of  his  lips  could  have  been  heard  at  the 
mouth  of  Pogue's  entry.  We  waited  with 
breathless  interest.  When  he  had  finished 
he  knocked  the  ashes  out  on  the  toe  of  his 
brogue  and  talked  for  nearly  an  hour  of 
116 


the  great  event  in  which  he  covered  himself 
with  glory. 

It  was  a  fierce  encounter  according  to 
Hughie,  the  then  champion  being  a  Bally- 
mena  man  by  the  name  of  Jack  Rooney. 
Jack  and  a  bunch  of  vagabonds  sat  on  a 
stone  pile  near  Ballyclare  when  Hughie 
hove  in  sight.  The  beggar-man  was  at 
once  challenged  to  divest  himself  of  half  his 
clothes  or  enter  the  contest.  He  entered, 
with  the  result  that  Ballymena  lost  the 
championship!  The  concluding  round  as 
Hughie  recited  it  was  as  follows: 

"  I  dhruv  a  nail  throo  th'  moon  wanst," 
said  Jack. 

"  Ye  did,  did  ye,"  said  Hughie,  "  but  did 
ye  iver  hear  ov  the  maan  that  climbed  up 
over  th'  clouds  wid  a  hammer  in  his  han' 
an'  clinched  it  on  th'  other  side?" 

"  No,"  said  the  champion. 

"I'm   him!"   said   Hughie. 

"I'm  bate!"  said  Jack  Rooney,  "an' 
117 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

begobs  if  I  wor  St.   Peether  I  'd  kape  ye 
outside  th'  gate  till  ye  tuk  it  out  agin!" 

Anna  returned  with  a  blanket  rolled  up 
under  her  arm.  She  gave  Htighie  his 
choice  between  sleeping  in  Jamie's  corner 
among  the  lasts  or  occupying  the  pigsty. 
He  chose  the  pigsty,  but  before  he  retired 
I  begged  Anna  to  ask  him  about  the 
Banshee. 

"  Did  ye  ever  really  see  a  Banshee, 
Hughie?" 

"  Is  there  aanythin'  a  champ'yun  liar 
haas  n't  seen?"  Jamie  interrupted. 

"  Aye,"  Hughie  said,  "  'deed  there  is,  he 
niver  seen  a  maan  who  'd  believe  'im  even 
whin  he  was  tellin'  th'  thruth!" 

"  That 's  broth  for  your  noggin',  Jamie," 
Anna  said.  Encouraged  by  Anna,  Hughie 
came  back  with  a  thrust  that  increased 
Jamie's  sympathy  for  him. 

"  I  'm  undther  yer  roof  an'  beholdin'  t' 
yer  kindness,  but  I  'd  like  t'  ax  ye  a  civil 
quest'yun  if  I  may  be  so  bowld." 
118 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

"  Aye,  go  on." 

"  Did  ye  blow  a  farmer's  brains  out  in 
th'  famine  fur  a  pint  ov  milk  ?  " 

"It's  a  lie!"  Jamie  said,  indignantly. 

"  Well,  me  bhoy,  there  must  b'  quite  a 
wheen,  thrainin'  fur  me  belt  in  Anthrim !  " 

"  There  's  something  in  that,   Hughie !  " 

"  Aye,  somethin'  Hughie  Thornton  did  n't 
put  in  it !  " 

We  youngsters  were  irritated  and  im 
patient  over  what  seemed  to  us  useless 
palaver  about  minor  details.  We  wanted 
the  story  and  wanted  it  at  once,  for  we 
understood  that  Hughie  went  to  bed  with 
the  crows  and  we  stood  in  terror  lest  this 
huge  bundle  of  pockets  with  its  unearthly 
voice  should  vanish  into  thin  air. 

"  D  'ye  know  McShane  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Aye,  middlin'." 

"  Ax  'im  what  Hughie  Thornton  towld 
'im  wan  night  be  th'  hour  ov  midnight  an' 
afther.     Ax  'im,  I  say,  an'  he  '11  swear  be 
th'  Holy  Virgin  an'  St.  Peether  t'  it!" 
119 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Jist  tell  us  aanyway,  Hughie,"  Anna 
urged  and  the  beggar-man  proceeded. 

"  I  was  be  th'  oul  Quaker  graveyard  be 
Moylena  wan  night  whin  th'  shadows  fell 
an'  bein'  more  tired  than  most  I  slipt  in 
an'  lay  down  be  th'  big  wall  t'  slape.  I 
cros't  m'self  seven  times  an'  says  I  — '  God 
rest  th'  sowls  ov  all  here,  an'  God  prosper 
th'  sowl  ov  Hughie  Thornton.'  I  wint  t' 
slape  an'  slept  th'  slape  ov  th'  just  till 
twelve  be  th'  clock.  I  was  shuk  out  ov 
slape  be  a  screech  that  waked  th'  dead! 

"  Och,  be  th'  powers,  Jamie,  me  hair  stud 
like  th'  brisels  on  O'Hara's  hog.  I  lukt 
and  what  m'  eyes  lukt  upon  froze  me  blood 
like  icicles  hingin'  frum  th'  thatch.  It  was 
a  woman  in  a  white  shift,  young  an'  beau 
tiful,  wid  hair  stramin'  down  her  back. 
She  sat  on  th'  wall  wid  her  head  in  her  han's 
keenin'  an'  moanin' :  '  Ochone,  ochone ! ' 
I  thried  to  spake  but  m'  tongue  cluv  t'  th' 
roof  ov  m'  mouth.  I  thried  t'  move  a 
han'  but  it  wud  n't  budge.  M'  legs  an' 
1 20 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

feet  wor  as  stiff  and  shtrait  as  th'  legs  ov 
thim  tongs  in  yer  chimley.  Och,  but  it 's 
th'  prackus  I  was  frum  top  t'  toe!  Dead 
intirely  was  I  but  fur  th'  eyes  an'  th'  wit 
behint  thim.  She  ariz  an'  walked  up  an' 
down,  back  an'  fort',  up  an'  down,  back 
an'  fort',  keenin'  an'  cryin'  an'  wringin'  her 
han's !  Maan  alive,  did  n't  she  carry  on 
terrible!  Purty  soon  wid  a  yell  she  lept 
into  the  graveyard,  thin  she  lept  on  th'  wall, 
thin  I  heerd  her  on  th'  road,  keenin';  an' 
iverywhere  she  wint  wor  long  bars  of  light 
like  sunbames  streamin'  throo  th'  holes  in 
a  barn.  Th'  keenin'  become  waker  an' 
waker  till  it  died  down  like  the  cheep  ov 
a  willy- wag-tail  far  off  be  the  ind  ov  th' 
road. 

"  I  got  up  an'  ran  like  a  red  shank  t' 
McShane's  house.  I  dundthered  at  his 
doore  till  he  opened  it,  thin  I  towld  him  I  'd 
seen  th'  Banshee! 

"  '  That  bates  Bannagher ! '  says  he. 

"'It    bates     th'     divil,'     says     I.     *  But 

121 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

whose  fur  above  th'  night  is  what  I  'd  like 
t'  know.' 

"  'Oul  Misther  Chaine,'  says  he,  '  as  sure 
as  gun  's  iron ! ' 

The  narrative  stopped  abruptly,  stopped 
at  McShane's  door. 

"  Did  oul  Misther  Chaine  die  that 
night?"  Anna  asked. 

"Ax  McShane!"  was  all  the  answer  he 
gave  and  we  were  sent  off  to  bed. 

Hughie  was  escorted  to  the  pigsty  with 
his  blanket  and  candle.  What  Jamie  saw 
on  the  way  to  the  pigsty  made  the  per 
spiration  stand  in  big  beads  on  his  furrowed 
brow.  Silhouetted  against  the  sky  were 
several  figures.  Some  were  within  a  dozen 
yards,  others  were  farther  away.  Two 
sat  on  a  low  wall  that  divided  the  Adair 
and  Mulholland  gardens.  They  were  si 
lent  and  motionless,  but  there  was  no  mis 
take  about  it.  He  directed  Anna's  attention 
to  them  and  she  made  light  of  it.  When 
they  returned  to  the  house  Jamie  expressed 
122 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

fear  for  the  life  of  the  beggar-man.  Anna 
whispered  something  into  his  ear,  for  she 
knew  that  we  were  wide-awake.  They 
went  into  their  room  conversing  in  an 
undertone. 

The  thing  was  so  uncanny  to  me  that  it 
was  three  o'clock  next  morning  before  I 
went  to  sleep.  As  early  as  six  there  was 
an  unusual  shuffling  and  clattering  of  feet 
over  the  cobblestones  in  Pogue's  entry. 
We  knew  everybody  in  the  entry  by  the 
sound  of  their  footfall.  The  clatter  was 
by  the  feet  of  strangers. 

I  "  dunched  "  my  brother,  who  lay  beside 
me,  with  my  elbow. 

"  Go  an'  see  if  oul  Hughie  's  livin'  or 
dead,"  I  said. 

"  Ye  cud  n't  kill  'im,"  he  said. 

"How  d'ye  know?" 

"  I  heerd  a  quare  story  about  'im  last 
night!" 

"Where?" 

"  In  th'  barber's  shop." 
123 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"Is  he  a  feerie?" 

"  No." 

"What  is  he?" 

"  Close  yer  thrap  an'  lie  still !  " 

Somebody  opened  the  door  and  walked  in. 

I  slid  into  my  clothes  and  climbed  down. 
It  was  Withero.  He  shook  Anna  and 
Jamie  in  their  bed  and  asked  in  a  loud 
voice : 

"  What 's  all  this  palaver  about  an'  oul 
throllop  what  niver  earned  salt  t'  'is 
pirtas?" 

"  Go  on  t'  yer  stone  pile,  Willie,"  Anna 
said,  as  she  sat  up  in  bed ;  "  what  ye  don't 
know  will  save  docther's  bills." 

"  If  I  catch  m'self  thinkin'  aanythin' 
sauncy  ov  that  aul  haythen  baste  I  '11  change 
m'  name!"  he  said,  as  he  turned  and  left 
in  high  dudgeon. 

When   I   got  to  the  pigsty   there   were 

several     early     callers     lounging     around. 

"  Jowler  "  Hainey  sat  on  a  big  stone  near 

the  slit.     Mary   McConnaughy  stood  with 

124 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

her  arms  akimbo,  within  a  yard  of  the  door, 
and  Tommy  Wilson  was  peeping  into  the 
sty  through  a  knot-hole  on  the  side.  I  took 
my  turn  at  the  hole.  Hughie  had  evidently 
been  awakened  early.  He  was  sitting  ar 
ranging  his  pockets.  Con  Mulholland 
came  down  the  entry  with  his  gun  over 
his  shoulder.  He  had  just  returned  from 
his  vigil  as  night  watchman  at  the  Greens 
and  was  going  the  longest  way  around  to 
his  home. 

He  leaned  his  gun  against  the  house  side 
and  lit  his  pipe.  Then  he  opened  the  sty 
door,  softly,  and  said: 

"Morra,  Hughie." 

"  Morra,  Con,"  came  the  answer,  in 
calliope  tones  from  our  guest. 

"  Haave  ye  a  good  stock  ov  tubacca?" 
Con  asked  Hughie. 

"  I  cud  shtart  a  pipe  shap,  Con,  fur  be 
th'  first  strake  ov  dawn  I  found  five  new 
pipes  an'  five  half  ounces  ov  tubacca  inside 
th'  doore  ov  th'  sty!  " 
125 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Take  this  bit  too.  Avic,  ye  don't  come 
ofen,"  and  he  gave  him  a  small  package 
and  took  his  departure. 

Eliza  Conlon  brought  a  cup  of  tea. 
Without  even  looking  in,  she  pushed  the 
little  door  ajar,  laid  it  just  inside,  and  went 
away  without  a  word.  Mulholland  and 
Hainey  seemed  supremely  concerned  about 
the  weather.  From  all  they  said  it  was 
quite  evident  that  each  of  them  had  "jist 
dhrapped  aroun'  t'  find  out  what  Jamie 
thought  ov  th'  prospects  fur  a  fine  day !  " 
Old  Sandy  Somerville  came  hatless  and  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pock 
ets  and  his  big  watchchain  dangling  across 
what  Anna  called  the  "  front  of  his  back." 
Sandy  was  some  quality,  too,  and  owned 
three  houses. 

"  Did  aany  o'  ye  see  my  big  orange  cat  ?  " 
he  asked  the  callers.  Without  waiting  for 
an  answer  he  opened  the  door  of  the  pigsty 
and  peeped  in. 

By  the  time  Hughie  scrambled  out  there 
126 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

were  a  dozen  men,  women  and  boys  around 
the  sty.  As  the  beggar-man  struggled  up 
through  his  freight  to  his  feet  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd  were  scrutinizing  him.  Sandy 
shook  hands  with  him  and  wished  him  a 
pleasant  journey. 

Hainey  hoped  he  would  live  long  and 
prosper.  As  he  expressed  the  hope  he  fur 
tively  stuffed  into  one  of  Hughie's  pockets 
a  small  package. 

Anna  came  out  and  led  Hughie  into 
the  house  for  breakfast.  The  little  crowd 
moved  toward  the  door.  On  the  doorstep 
she  turned  around  and  said :  "  Hughie  's 
goin'  t'  haave  a  cup  an'  a  slice  an'  go.  Ye 
can  all  see  him  in  a  few  minutes.  Excuse 
me  if  I  shut  the  doore,  but  Jamie  's  givin' 
the  thrush  its  mornin'  bath  an'  it  might 
fly  out." 

She  gently  closed  the  door  and  we  were 
again  alone  with  the  guest. 

'  The  luck  ov  God  is  m'  portion  here," 
he  said,  looking  at  Anna. 
127 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Nothing  was  more  evident.  His  pock 
ets  were  taxed  to  their  full  capacity  and 
those  who  gathered  around  the  table  that 
morning  wished  that  the  "  luck  of  God " 
would  spread  a  little. 

"  Th'  feeries  must  haave  been  t'  see  ye," 
Jamie  said,  eyeing  his  pockets. 

"  Aye,  gey  sauncy  feeries,  too !  " 

"  Did  ye  see  aany,  Hughie?  "  Anna  asked. 

"  No,  but  I  had  a  wondtherful  dhrame." 
The  announcement  was  a  disappointment 
to  us.  We  had  dreams  of  our  own  and  to 
have  right  at  our  fireside  the  one  man 
in  all  the  world  who  saw  things  and  get 
merely  a  dream  from  him  was,  to  say  the 
least,  discouraging. 

"  I  thocht  I  heer'd  th'  rat,  tap ;  rat,  tap, 
ov  th'  Lepracaun  —  th'  f eerie  shoemaker. 

"  '  Is  that  th'  Lepracaun?  '  says  I.  '  If  it 
is  I  want  m'  three  wishes.'  '  Get  thim  out,' 
says  he,  'fur  I  'm  gey  busy  th'  night.' 

"  '  Soun'  slape  th'  night  an'  safe  journey 
th'  morra,'  says  I. 

128 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

" '  Get  yer  third  out  or  I  'm  gone/  says 
he. 

"  I  scratched  m'  head  an'  swithered,  but 
divil  a  third  cud  I  think  ov.  Jist  as  he 
was  goin',  '  Oh/  says  I,  '  I  want  a  pig  fur 
this  sty!' 

"'Ye '11  git  him!'  says  he,  an'  off  he 
wint." 

Here  was  something,  after  all,  that  gave 
us  more  excitement  than  a  Banshee  story. 
We  had  a  sty.  We  had  hoped  for  years 
for  a  pig.  We  had  been  forced  often  to 
use  some  of  the  sty  for  fuel,  but  in  good 
times  Jamie  had  always  replaced  the 
boards.  This  was  a  real  vision  and  we 
were  satisfied.  Jamie's  faith  in  Hughie 
soared  high  at  the  time,  but  a  few  months 
later  it  fell  to  zero.  Anna  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye  would  remind  us  of  Hughie's 
prophecy.  One  day  he  wiped  the  vision 
off  the  slate. 

"T  h  — 1  wi'  Hughie!"  he  said. 
"  Some  night  he  '11  come  back  an'  slape 

I2Q 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

there,  thin  we  '11  haave  a  pig  in  th'  sty 
shure!" 

As  he  left  our  house  that  morning  he  was 
greeted  in  a  most  unusual  manner  by  a 
score  of  people  who  crowded  the  entry. 
Men  and  women  gathered  around  him. 
They  inspected  the  wounds.  They  gave 
their  blessing  in  as  many  varieties  as  there 
were  people  present.  The  new  attitude 
toward  the  beggar  baffled  us.  Generally 
he  was  considered  a  good  deal  of  a  nuisance 
and  something  of  a  fraud,  but  that  morning 
he  was  looked  upon  as  a  saint  —  as  one  in 
spired,  as  one  capable  of  bestowing  bene 
dictions  on  the  young  and  giving  "  luck  " 
to  the  old.  Out  of  their  penury  and  want 
they  brought  gifts  of  food,  tobacco,  cloth 
for  patches  and  needles  and  thread.  He 
was  overwhelmed  and  over-burdened,  and 
as  his  mission  of  gathering  food  for  a  few 
weeks  was  accomplished,  he  made  for  the 
town  head  when  he  left  the  entry. 

The  small  crowd  grew  into  a  big  one 
130 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  HUGHIE  THORNTON 

and  he  was  the  center  of  a  throng  as  he 
made  his  way  north.  When  he  reached 
the  town  well,  Maggie  McKinstry  had 
several  small  children  in  waiting  and 
Hughie  was  asked  to  give  them  a  blessing. 
It  was  a  new  atmosphere  to  him,  but  he 
bungled  through  it.  The  more  unintelli 
gible  his  jabbering,  the  more  assured  were 
the  recipients  of  his  power  to  bless.  One 
of  the  boys  who  stoned  him  was  brought 
by  his  father  to  ask  forgiveness. 

"  God  save  ye  kindly,"  Hughie  said  to 
him.  "  Th'  woonds  ye  made  haave  been 
turned  into  blessin's  galore ! "  He  came 
in  despised.  He  went  out  a  saint. 

It  proved  to  be  Hughie's  last  visit  to 
Antrim.  His  going  out  of  life  was  a  mys 
tery,  and  as  the  years  went  by  tradition 
accorded  him  an  exit  not  unlike  that  of 
Moses.  I  was  amongst  those  the  current 
of  whose  lives  were  supposed  to  have  been 
changed  by  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  that 
last  visit.  Anna  alone  knew  the  secret  of 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

his  alleged  sainthood.  She  was  the  author 
and  publisher  of  it.  That  night  when  she 
left  us  with  Hughie  she  gathered  together 
in  'Liza  Conlon's  a  few  "  hand-picked " 
people  whose  minds  were  as  an  open  book 
to  her.  She  told  them  that  the  beggar- 
man  was  of  an  ancient  line,  wandering  the 
earth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail,  but  that 
as  he  wandered  he  was  recording  in  a  secret 
book  the  deeds  of  the  poor.  She  knew 
exactly  how  the  news  would  travel  and 
where.  One  superstition  stoned  him  and 
another  canonized  him. 

"  Dear,"  she  said  to  me,  many,  many 
years  afterwards.  "  A  good  thought  will 
th ravel  as  fast  an'  as  far  as  a  bad  wan  if 
it  gets  th'  right  start ! " 


132 


CHAPTER  VII 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

T  'S  a  quare  world,"  Jamie 
said  one  night  as  we  sat  in 
the  glow  of  a  peat  fire. 

"  Aye,    'deed    yer    right, 
Jamie,"     Anna     replied     as 
she  gazed  into  the  smokeless  flames. 

He  took  his  short  black  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth,  spat  into  the  burning  sods  and 
added :  "  I  wondther  if  it 's  as  quare  t' 
everybody,  Anna  ?  " 

"  Ochane,"  she  replied,  "  it 's  quare  t' 
poor  craithers  who  haave  naither  mate, 
money  nor  marbles,  nor  chalk  t'  make  th' 
ring." 

There  had  been  but  one  job  that  day  — 
a  pair  of  McGuckin's  boots.  They  had  been 
half-soled  and  heeled  and  my  sister  had 

133 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

taken  them  home,  with  orders  what  to  bring 
home  for  supper. 

The  last  handful  of  peat  had  been  put  on 
the  fire.  The  cobbler's  bench  had  been  put 
aside  for  the  night  and  we  gathered  closely 
around  the  hearth. 

The  town  clock  struck  eight. 

"What  th'  h  —  1's  kapin'  th'  hussy!" 
Jamie  said  petulantly. 

"  Hugh  's  at  a  Fenian  meeting  more  'n 
likely  an'  it 's  worth  a  black  eye  for  th' 
wife  t'  handle  money  when  he 's  gone," 
Anna  suggested. 

"  More  likely  he  's  sleepin'  off  a  dhrunk," 
he  said. 

"  No,  Jamie,  he  laves  that  t'  the  craithers 
who  give  'im  a  livin'." 

"  Yer  no  judge  o'  human  naiture,  Anna. 
A  squint  out  o'  th'  tail  o'  yer  eye  at  what 
McGuckin  carries  in  front  ov  'im  wud  tell 
ye  betther  if  ye  had  th'  wits  to  obsarve." 

Over  the  fire  hung  a  pot  on  the  chain  and 
close  to  the  turf  coals  sat  the  kettle  singing. 
134 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

Nothing  of  that  far-off  life  has  left  a  more 
lasting  impression  than  the  singing  of  the 
kettle.  It  sang  a  dirge  that  night,  but  it 
usually  sang  of  hope.  It  was  ever  the  har 
binger  of  the  thing  that  was  most  indis 
pensable  in  that  home  of  want  —  a  cup  of 
tea.  Often  it  was  tea  without  milk,  some 
times  without  sugar,  but  always  tea.  If  it 
came  to  a  choice  between  tea  and  bread,  we 
went  without  bread. 

Anna  did  not  relish  the  reflection  on  her 
judgment  and  remained  silent. 

There  was  a  loud  noise  at  the  door. 

"Jazus!"  Jamie  exclaimed,  "it's 
snowin'."  Some  one  was  kicking  the  snow 
off  against  the  door-post.  The  latch  was 
lifted  and  in  walked  Felix  Boyle  the 
bogman. 

"  What  th'  blazes  are  ye  in  th'  dark  fur?  " 
Felix  asked  in  a  deep,  hoarse  voice.  His 
old  rabbit-skin  cap  was  pulled  down  over 
his  ears,  his  head  and  shoulders  were 
covered  with  snow.  As  he  shook  it  off  we 
135 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

shivered.  We  were  in  debt  to  Felix  for  a 
load  of  turf  and  we  suspected  he  had  called 
for  the  money.  Anna  lit  the  candle  she 
was  saving  for  supper-time.  The  bogman 
threw  his  cap  and  overcoat  over  in  the  cor 
ner  on  the  lasts  and  sat  down. 

"  I  'm  frozen  t'  death !  "  he  said  as  he 
proceeded  to  take  off  his  brogues.  As  he 
came  up  close  to  the  coals,  we  were  smitten 
with  his  foul  breath  and  in  consequence 
gave  him  a  wider  berth.  He  had  been 
drinking. 

"Where's  th'  mare?"  Anna  asked. 

"  Gone  home,  th'  bitch  o'  h  —  1,"  he  said, 
"  an'  she 's  got  m'  load  o'  turf  wid  'er, 
bad  cess  t'  'er  dhirty  sowl ! " 

The  town  clock  struck  nine. 

Felix  removed  his  socks,  pushed  his  stool 
aside  and  sat  down  on  the  mud  floor.  A 
few  minutes  later  he  was  flat  on  his  back, 
fast  asleep  and  snoring  loudly. 

The  fire  grew  smaller.  Anna  husbanded 
the  diminishing  embers  by  keeping  them 
136 


closely  together  with  the  long  tongs.  The 
wind  howled  and  screamed.  The  window 
rattled,  the  door  creaked  on  its  hinges  and 
every  few  minutes  a  gust  of  wind  came 
down  the  chimney  and  blew  the  ashes  into 
our  faces.  We  huddled  nearer  the  fire. 

"  Can't  ye  fix  up  that  oul  craither's  head 
a  bit?"  Jamie  asked.  I  brought  over  the 
bogman's  coat.  Anna  made  a  pillow  of 
it  and  placed  it  under  his  head.  He 
turned  over  on  his  side.  As  he  did  so  a 
handful  of  small  change  rolled  out  of  his 
pocket. 

"  Think  of  that  now,"  Jamie  said  as  he 
gathered  it  up  and  stuffed  it  back  where  it 
belonged,  "  an  oul  dhrunken  turf  dhriver 
wi'  money  t'  waste  while  we  're  starvin'." 

From  that  moment  we  were  acutely 
hungry. 

This  new  incident  rendered  the  condition 
poignant. 

"  Maybe  Mrs.  Boyle  an'  th'  wains  are  as 
hungry  as  we  are,"  Anna  remarked. 

137 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Wi'  a  bogful  o'  turf  at  th'  doore?  " 

"Th'  can't  eat  turf,  Jamie!" 

"  Th'  can  warm  their  shins,  that's 
more  'n  we  can  do,  in  a  minute  or  two." 

The  rapidly  diminishing  coals  were  ar 
ranged  once  more.  They  were  a  mere 
handful  now  and  the  house  was  cold. 

There  were  two  big  holes  in  the  chimney 
where  Jamie  kept  old  pipes,  pipe  cleaners, 
bits  of  rags  and  scraps  of  tobacco.  He 
liked  to  hide  a  scrap  or  two  there  and  in 
times  of  scarcity  make  himself  believe  he 
found  them.  His  last  puff  of  smoke  had 
gone  up  the  chimney  hours  ago.  He 
searched  both  holes  without  success.  A 
bright  idea  struck  him.  He  searched  for 
Boyle's  pipe.  He  searched  in  vain. 

"Holy  Moses!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a 
breath;  a  pint  ov  that  wud  make  a  mule 
dhrunk!" 

"  Thry  it,  Jamie,"  Anna  said,  laughing. 

"  Thry  it  yerself, —  yer  a  good  dale  more 
ov  a  judge !  "  he  said  snappishly. 
138 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

A  wild  gust  of  wind  came  down  the 
chimney  and  blew  the  loose  ashes  off  the 
hearth.  Jamie  ensconced  himself  in  his 
corner  —  a  picture  of  despair. 

"  I  wondther  if  Billy  O'Hare  's  in  bed?  " 
he  said. 

"  Ye  'd  need  fumigatin'  afther  smokin' 
Billy's  tobacco,  Jamie !  " 

"  I'd  smoke  tobacco  scraped  out  o'  the 
breeches-pocket  ov  th'  oul  divil  in  hell ! " 
he  replied. 

He  arose,  put  on  his  muffler  and  made 
ready  to  visit  the  sweep.  On  the  way  to 
the  door  another  idea  turned  him  back.  He 
put  on  the  bogman's  overcoat  and  rabbit- 
skin  cap.  Anna,  divining  his  intention, 
said: 

"  That 's  th'  first  sign  of  sense  I  've  see 
in  you  for  a  month  of  Sundays." 

"  Ye  cud  n't  see  it  in  a  month  ov  Easther 
Sundays,  aanyway,"  he  retorted  with  a 
superior  toss  of  his  head. 

Anna  kept  up  a  rapid  fire  of  witty  re- 
139 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

marks.  She  injected  humor  into  the  situ 
ation  and  laughed  like  a  girl,  and  although 
she  felt  the  pangs  more  keenly  than  any 
of  us,  her  laughter  was  genuine  and  natu 
ral. 

Jamie  had  his  empty  pipe  in  his  mouth 
and  by  force  of  habit  he  picked  up  in  the 
tongs  a  little  bit  of  live  coal  to  light  it. 
We  all  tittered. 

"  Th'  h  —  1 !  "  he  muttered,  as  he  made 
for  the  door.  Before  he  reached  it  my  sis 
ter  walked  in.  McGuckin  was  n't  at  home. 
His  wife  could  n't  pay.  We  saw  the  whole 
story  on  her  face,  every  pang  of  it. 
Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen.  Before 
she  got  out  a  sentence  of  the  tale  of  woe, 
she  noticed  the  old  man  in  Boyle's  clothing 
and  burst  out  laughing.  So  hearty  and 
boisterous  was  it  that  we  all  again  caught 
the  contagion  and  laughed  with  her.  Sor 
row  was  deep-seated.  It  had  its  roots 
away  down  at  the  bottom  of  things,  but 
laughter  was  always  up  near  the  surface 
140 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

and  could  be  tapped  on  the  slightest  provo 
cation.  It  was  a  by- valve  —  a  way  of 
escape  for  the  overflow.  There  were 
times  when  sorrow  was  too  deep  for  tears. 
But  there  never  was  a  time  when  we 
could  n't  laugh ! 

People  in  our  town  who  expected  visitors 
to  knock  provided  a  knocker.  The  knocker 
was  a  distinct  line  of  social  demarcation. 
We  lived  below  the  line.  The  minister 
and  the  tract  distributor  were  the  only 
persons  who  ever  knocked  at  our  door. 

Scarcely  had  our  laughter  died  away 
when  the  door  opened  and  there  entered 
in  the  sweep  of  a  blizzard's  tail  Billy 
O'Hare.  The  gust  of  cold  winter  wind 
made  us  shiver  again  and  we  drew  up  closer 
to  the  dying  fire  —  so  small  now  as  to  be 
seen  with  difficulty. 

"  Be  th'  seven  crosses  ov  Arbow,  Jamie," 
he  said,  "  I  'm  glad  yer  awake,  me  bhoy,  if 
ye  had  n't  I  'd  haave  pulled  ye  out  be  th' 
tail  ov  yer  shirt!  " 

141 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  I  was  jist  within  an  ace  ov  goin'  over 
an'  pullin'  ye  out  be  th'  heels  myself." 

The  chimney-sweep  stepped  forward 
and,  tapping  Jamie  on  the  forehead,  said: 

"  Two  great  minds  workin'  on  th'  same 
thought  shud  projuce  wondtherful  results, 
Jamie ;  lend  me  a  chew  ov  tobacco !  " 

"  Ye  've  had  larks  for  supper,  Billy ;  yer 
jokin' !  "  Jamie  said. 

"Larks  be  damned,"  Billy  said,  "  m* 
tongue  's  stickin'  t'  th'  roof  ov  me  mouth!  " 

Again  we  laughed,  while  the  two  men 
stood  looking  at  each  other  —  speechless. 

"  Ye  can  do  switherin'  as  easy  sittin'  as 
standin',"  Anna  said,  and  Billy  sat  down. 
The  bogman's  story  was  repeated  in 
minutest  detail.  The  sweep  scratched  his 
sooty  head  and  looked  wise. 

"  It 's  gone !  "  Anna  said  quietly,  and  we 
all  looked  toward  the  fire.  It  was  dead. 
The  last  spark  had  been  extinguished.  We 
shivered. 

"  We  don't  need  so  mapv  stools  aany- 
14* 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

way,"  Jamie  said.  "  I  '11  get  a  hatchet  an' 
we  '11  haave  a  fire  in  no  time." 

"  T'  be  freezin'  t'  death  wi  a  bogman 
goin'  t'  waste  is  unchristian,  t'  say  th' 
laste,"  Billy  ventured. 

"  Every  time  we  get  to  th'  end  of  th' 
tether  God  appears ! "  Anna  said  reassur 
ingly,  as  she  pinned  her  shawl  closer 
around  her  neck. 

"  There  's  nothin'  but  empty  bowels  and 
empty  pipes  in  our  house,"  the  sweep  said, 
"  but  we  Ve  got  half  a  dozen  good  turf 
left!" 

"  Well,  it 's  a  long  lane  that 's  got  no 
turnin' — ye  might  lend  us  thim,"  Jamie 
suggested. 

"If  ye  '11  excuse  m'  fur  a  minit,  I  '11 
warm  this  house,  an'  may  the  Virgin  choke 
m'  in  th'  nixt  chimley  I  sweep  if  I  don't!  " 

In  a  few  minutes  he  returned  with  six 
black  turf.  The  fire  was  rebuilt  and  we 
basked  in  its  warm  white  glow.  The  bog 
man  snored  on.  Billy  inquired  about  the 

143 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

amount  of  his  change.  Then  he  became 
solicitous  about  his  comfort  on  the  floor. 
Each  suggestion  was  a  furtive  flank  move 
ment  on  Boyle's  loose  change. 

Anna  saw  the  bent  of  his  mind  and  tried 
to  divert  his  attention. 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear,  Billy,"  she  said, 
"  that  if  we  stand  a  dhrunk  maan  on  his 
head  it  sobers  him?" 

"  Be  the  powers,  no." 

"  They  say,"  she  said  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  eyes,  "  that  it  empties  him  of  his 
contents." 

"  Aye,"  sighed  the  sweep,  "  there's  some 
thing  in  that,  Anna;  let 's  thry  it  on  Boyle." 

There  was  an  element  of  excitement  in 
the  suggestion  and  we  youngsters  hoped 
it  would  be  carried  out.  Billy  made  a  move 
to  suit  the  action  to  the  thought,  but  Anna 
pushed  him  gently  back.  "  Jamie's  mouth 
is  as  wathry  as  yours,  Billy,  but  we  '11  take 
no  short  cuts,  we  '11  go  th'  long  way 
around." 

144 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

That  seemed  a  death-blow  to  hope.  My 
sisters  began  to  whimper  and  sniffle.  We 
had  many  devices  for  diverting  hunger. 
The  one  always  used  as  a  last  resort  was 
the  stories  of  the  "  great  famine."  We 
were  particularly  helped  by  one  about  ia 
family  half  of  whom  died  around  a  pot  of 
stir-about  that  had  come  too  late.  When 
we  heard  Jamie  say,  "  Things  are  purty 
bad,  but  they  're  not  as  bad  as  they  might 
be,"  we  knew  a  famine  story  was  on  the 
way. 

"  Hould  yer  horses  there  a  minute !  " 
Billy  O'Hare  broke  in.  He  took  the  step- 
ladder  and  before  we  knew  what  he  was 
about  he  had  taken  a  bunch  of  dried  rose 
mary  from  the  roof-beams  and  was  rub 
bing  it  in  his  hands  as  a  substitute  for 
tobacco. 

After  rubbing  it  between  his  hands  he 
filled  his  pipe  and  began  to  puff  vigorously. 

"  Wud  ye  luk  at  'im!  "  Jamie  exclaimed. 

"  I  've  lived  with  th'  mother  ov  invintion 

145 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

since  I  was  th'  size  ov  a  mushroom,"  he 
said  between  the  puffs,  "  an  begorra  she  's 
betther  nor  a  wife."  The  odor  filled  the 
house.  It  was  like  the  sweet  incense  of  a 
censer.  The  men  laughed  and  joked  over 
the  discovery.  The  sweep  indulged  him 
self  in  some  extravagant,  self-laudatory 
statements,  one  of  which  became  a  house 
hold  word  with  us. 

"  Jamie,"  he  said  as  he  removed  his  pipe 
and  looked  seriously  at  my  father,  "  who 
was  that  poltroon  that  discovered  tobac 
co?"  Anna  informed  him. 

"  What  '11  become  ov  'im  whin  compared 
wid  O'Hare,  th'  inventor  of  th'  rosemary 
delection  ?  I  ax  ye,  Jamie,  bekase  ye  're 
an  honest  maan." 

"  Heaven  knows,  Billy." 

"  Aye,  heaven  only  knows,  fur  I  '11  hand 
down  t'  m'  future  ancestors  the  O'Hara 
brand  ov  rosemary  tobacco!" 

"  Wondtherful,     -wondtherf ul !  "     Jamie 
said,  in  mock  solemnity. 
146 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

"  Aye,  t'  think,"  Anna  said,  "  that  ye  in- 
vinted  it  in  our  house !  " 

We  forgot  our  hunger  pangs  in  the 
excitement.  Jamie  filled  his  pipe  and  the 
two  men  smoked  for  a  few  minutes.  Then 
a  fly  appeared  in  the  precious  ointment. 
My  father  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
and  looked  inquisitively  at  Billy. 

"  M'  head 's  spinnin'  'round  like  a 
peerie !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Whin  did  ye  ate  aanything?"  asked 
the  sweep. 

"  Yestherday." 

"  Aye,  well,  it 's  th'  mate  ye  haave  n't 
in  yer  bowels  that 's  makin'  ye  feel 
quare." 

"What's  th'  matther  wi  th'  invintor?" 
Anna  asked. 

Billy  had  removed  his  pipe  and  was  star 
ing  vacantly  into  space. 

"  I  'm  seein'  things  two  at  a  time, 
b  '  Jazus !  "  he  answered. 

"  We  've     got     plenty     of     nothin'     but 

147 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

wather,   maybe   ye  'd   like   a  good   dhrink, 
Billy?" 

Before  he  could  reply  the  bogman  raised 
himself  to  a  half-sitting  posture,  and  yelled 
with  all  the  power  of  his  lungs : 

"Whoa!  back,  ye  dhirty  baste,  back!" 
The  wild  yell  chilled  the  blood  in  our  veins. 

He  sat  up,  looked  at  the  black  figure  of 
the  sweep  for  a  moment,  then  made  a 
spring  at  Billy,  and  before  any  one  could 
interfere  poor  Billy  had  been  felled  to  the 
floor  with  a  terrible  smash  on  the  jaw. 
Then  he  jumped  on  him.  We  youngsters 
raised  a  howl  that  awoke  the  sleepers  in 
Pogue's  entry.  Jamie  and  Billy  soon 
overpowered  Boyle.  When  the  neighbors 
arrived  they  found  O'Hare  sitting  on 
Boyle's  neck  and  Jamie  on  his  legs. 

"Where  am  I?"  Boyle  asked. 

"  In  the  home  of  friends,"  Anna 
answered. 

"  Wud  th'  frien's  donate  a  mouthful  ov 
breath?" 

148 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

He  was  let  up.  The  story  of  the  night 
was  told  to  him.  He  listened  attentively. 
When  the  story  was  told  he  thrust  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  and  brought  forth  some 
change. 

"  Hould  yer  han'  out,  ye  black  imp  o* 
hell,"  he  said  to  O'Hare.  The  sweep 
obeyed,  but  remarked  that  the  town  clock 
had  already  struck  twelve.  "  I  don't  care 
a  damn  if  it's  thirteen!"  he  said. 
"  That 's  fur  bread,  that 's  fur  tay,  that 's 
fur  tobacco  an'  that 's  fur  somethin'  that 
runs  down  yer  throat  like  a  rasp,  fur  me. 
Now  don't  let  th'  grass  grow  undther  yer 
flat  feet,  ye  divil." 

After  some  minor  instructions  from 
Anna,  the  sweep  went  off  on  his  midnight 
errand.  The  neighbors  were  sent  home. 
The  kettle  replaced  the  pot  on  the  chain, 
and  we  gathered  full  of  ecstasy  close  to  the 
fire. 

"  Whisht !  "  Anna  said.  We  listened. 
Above  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the  rattling 
149 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

of   the   casement   we   heard   a   loud   noise. 

"  It 's  Billy  dundtherin'  at  Marget 
Kuril's  doore,"  Jamie  said. 

O'Hare  arrived  with  a  bang!  He  put 
his  bundles  down  on  the  table  and  vigor 
ously  swung  his  arms  like  flails  around  him 
to  thaw  himself  out.  Anna  arranged  the 
table  and  prepared  the  meal.  Billy  and 
Jamie  went  at  the  tobacco.  Boyle  took  the 
whiskey  and  said: 

"  I  thank  my  God  an'  the  holy  angels 
that  I  'm  in  th'  house  ov  timperance 
payple ! "  Then  looking  at  Jamie,  he 
said: 

"  Here  's  t'  ye,  Jamie,  an'  ye,  Anna,  an' 
th'  scoundthrel  O'Hare,  an'  here's  t'  th' 
three  that  niver  bred,  th'  priest,  th'  pope,  an' 
th'  mule!" 

Then  at  a  draft  he  emptied  the  bottle 
and  threw  it  behind  the  fire,  grunting  his 
satisfaction. 

"  Wud  n't  that  make  a  corpse  turn  'round 
in  his  coffin?"  Billy  said. 
150 


IN  THE  GLOW  OF  A  PEAT  FIRE 

"  Keep  yer  eye  on  that  loaf,  Billy,  or 
he  '11  be  dhrinkin'  our  health  in  it !  "  Jamie 
remarked  humorously. 

Boyle  stretched  himself  on  the  floor  and 
yawned.  The  little  table  was  brought  near 
the  fire,  the  loaf  was  cut  in  slices  and  di 
vided.  It  was  a  scene  that  brought  us  to 
the  edge  of  tears  —  tears  of  joy.  Anna's 
face  particularly  beamed.  She  talked  as 
she  prepared,  and  her  talk  was  of  God's 
appearance  at  the  end  of  every  tether,  and 
of  the  silver  lining  on  the  edge  of  every 
cloud.  She  had  a  penchant  for  mottoes, 
but  she  never  used  them  in  a  siege.  It 
was  when  the  siege  was  broken  she  poured 
them  in  and  they  found  a  welcome.  As 
she  spoke  of  God  bringing  relief,  Boyle 
got  up  on  his  haunches. 

"  Anna,"  he  said,  "  if  aanybody  brot 
me  here  th'  night  it  was  th'  oul  divil  in 
hell." 

'  'Deed  yer  mistaken,  Felix,"  she  an 
swered  sweetly.  "  When  God  sends  a 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maan  aanywhere  he  always  gets  there,  even 
if  he  has  to  be  taken  there  by  th'  divil." 

When  all  was  ready  we  gathered  around 
the  table.  "  How  I  wish  we  could  sing!  " 
she  said  as  she  looked  at  us.  The  answer 
was  on  every  face.  Hunger  would  not 
wait  on  ceremony.  We  were  awed  into 
stillness  and  silence,  however,  when  she 
raised  her  hand  in  benediction.  We 
bowed  our  heads.  Boyle  crossed  himself. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  we  thank  Thee 
for  sendin'  our  friend  Felix  here  th'  night. 
Bless  his  wife  an'  wains,  bless  them  in 
basket  an'  store  an'  take  good  care  of  his 
oul  mare.  Amen ! " 


152 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

SAT  on  a  fence  in  a  pota 
to  field,  whittling  an  alder 
stick  into  a  pea-blower  one 
afternoon  in  the  early  au 
tumn  when  I  noticed  at  the 
other  end  of  the  field  the  well-known  figure 
of  "  the  master."  He  was  dressed  as  usual 
in  light  gray  and  as  usual  rode  a  fine  horse. 
I  dropped  off  the  fence  as  if  I  had  been 
shot.  He  urged  the  horse  to  a  gallop.  I 
pushed  the  clumps  of  red  hair  under  my 
cap  and  pressed  it  down  tightly  on  my  head. 
Then  I  adjusted  the  string  that  served 
as  a  suspender.  On  came  the  galloping 
horse.  A  few  more  lightning  touches  to 
what  covered  my  nakedness  and  he  reined 
up  in  front  of  me!  I  straightened  up  like 
a  piece  of  whalebone ! 

153 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asked  in 
that  far-off  imperious  voice  of  his. 

"  Kapin'  th'  crows  off  th'  pirtas,  yer 
honor!  " 

"  You  need  a  new  shirt !  "  he  said.  The 
blood  rushed  to  my  face.  I  tried  to 
answer,  but  the  attempt  seemed  to  choke 
me. 

"  You  need  a  new  shirt ! "  he  almost 
yelled  at  me.  I  saw  a  smile  playing  about 
the  corners  of  his  fine  large  eyes.  It  gave 
me  courage. 

"  Aye,  yer  honor,  'deed  that 's  thrue." 

"Why  don't  you  get  one?"  The 
answer  left  my  mind  and  traveled  like  a 
flash  to  the  glottis,  but  that  part  of  the 
machinery  was  out  of  order  and  the  answer 
hung  fire.  I  paused,  drew  a  long  breath 
that  strained  the  string.  Then  matching 
his  thin  smile  with  a  thick  grin  I  replied: 

"  Did  yer  honor  iver  work  fur  four 
shillin's  a  week  and  share  it  wid  nine 
others?" 

154 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

"  No !  "  he  said  and  the  imprisoned  smile 
was  released. 

"  Well,  if  ye  iver  do,  shure  ye  '11  be 
lucky  to  haave  skin,  let  alone  shirt ! " 

"You   consider  yourself  lucky,   then?" 

"  Aye,  middlin'." 

He  galloped  away  and  I  lay  down  flat 
on  my  back,  wiped  the  sweat  from  my  brow 
with  the  sleeve  of  my  jacket,  turned  the 
hair  loose  and  eased  up  the  string. 

That  night  at  the  first  sound  of  the  farm 
yard  bell  I  took  to  my  heels  through  the 
fields,  through  the  yard  and  down  the 
Belfast  road  to  Withero's  stone-pile. 
Willie  was  just  quitting  for  the  day.  I 
was  almost  breathless,  but  I  blurted  out 
what  then  seemed  to  me  the  most  impor 
tant  happening  in  my  life. 

Willie  took  his  eye-protectors  off  and 
looked  at  me. 

"  So  ye  had  a  crack  wi'  the  masther,  did 


ye? 


"  Aye,  quite  a  crack." 
155 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  He  mistuk  ye  fur  a  horse !  "  he  said. 
This  damper  on  my  enthusiasm  drew  an 
instant  reply. 

"  'Deed  no,  nor  an  ass  naither." 

Willie  bundled  up  his  hammers  and  pre 
pared  to  go  home.  He  took  out  his  flint 
and  steel.  Over  the  flint  he  laid  a  piece  of 
brown  paper,  chemically  treated,  then  he 
struck  the  flint  a  sharp  blow  with  the  steel, 
a  spark  was  produced,  the  spark  ignited 
the  paper,  it  began  to  burn  in  a  smolder 
ing,  blazeless  way,  he  stuffed  the  paper  into 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe,  and  began  the  smoke 
that  was  to  carry  him  over  the  journey 
home.  I  shouldered  some  of  his  hammers 
and  we  trudged  along  the  road  toward 
Antrim. 

"  Throth,  I  know  yer  no  ass,  me  bhoy, 
though  Jamie  's  a  good  dale  ov  a  mule, 
but  yer  Ma 's  got  wit  enough  fur  the 
family.  That  answer  ye  gave  Misther 
Chaine  was  frum  yer  Ma.  It  was  gey 
cute  an  '11  git  ye  a  job,  I  '11  bate." 
156 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

I  had  something  else  to  tell  him,  but  I 
dreaded  his  critical  mind.  When  we  got 
to  the  railway  bridge  he  laid  his  hammers 
on  the  wall  while  he  relit  his  pipe.  I  saw 
my  last  opportunity  and  seized  it. 

"  Say,  Willie,  did  ye  iver  haave  a  feelin' 
that  made  ye  feel  fine  all  over  and  —  and 
—  made  ye  pray  ?  " 

"  I  niver  pray,"  he  said.  "  These 
wathery-mouthed  gossoons  who  pray  air 
jist  like  oul  Hughie  Thornton  wi'  his  pock 
ets  bulgin'  wi'  scroof  (crusts).  They're 
naggin  at  God  from  Aysther  t'  Christmas 
t'  fill  their  pockets!  A  good  day's  stone 
breakin  's  my  prayer.  At  night  I  jist  say, 
'  Thank  ye,  Father ! '  In  th'  mornin'  I 
say  '  Morra,  Father,  how 's  all  up  aroun' 
th'  throne  this  mornin'  ? ' ' 

"An'  does  He  spake  t'  ye  back?" 

"  Ov  coorse,  d  'ye  think  He  's  got  worse 

manners     nor     me?     He     says,     'Hello, 

Willie,'  says   He.     '  How 's  it  wi'  ye  this 

fine  mornin'  ? '     '  Purty  fine,  Father,  purty 

157 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

fine,'  says  I.  But  tell  me,  bhoy,  was  there 
a  girl  aroun'  whin  that  feelin'  struck  ye  ?  " 

"Divil  a  girl,  at  all!" 

"  Them  feelin's  sometimes  comes  f rum 
a  girl,  ye  know.  I  had  wan  wanst,  but 
that 's  a  long  story,  heigh  ho ;  aye,  that 's  a 
long  story ! " 

"Did  she  die,  Willie?" 

"  Never  mind  her.  That  feelin'  may 
haave  been  from  God.  Yer  Ma  hes  a  quare 
notion  that  wan  chile  o'  her'n  will  be  in 
clined  that  way.  She 's  dhrawn  eleven 
blanks,  maybe  she  's  dhrawn  a  prize,  afther 
all;  who  knows." 

Old  McCabe,  the  road  mender,  overtook 
us  and  for  the  rest  of  the  journey  I  was 
seen  but  not  heard. 

That  night  I  sat  by  her  side  in  the  chim 
ney-corner  and  recited  the  events  of  the 
day.  It  had  been  full  of  magic,  mystery 
and  meaning  to  me.  The  meaning  was  a 
little  clearer  to  me  after  the  recital. 

"  .Withero  sometimes  talks  like  a  ha'- 
158 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

penny  book  wi'  no  laves  in  it,"  she  said. 
"  But  most  of  the  time  he 's  nearer  the 
facts  than  most  of  us.  It  is  n't  all  blether, 
dear." 

We  sat  up  late,  long  after  the  others  had 
gone  to  sleep.  She  read  softly  a  chapter 
of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  the  chapter  in 
which  he  is  relieved  of  his  burden.  I  see 
now  that  woodcut  of  a  gate  and  over  the 
gate  the  words :  "  Knock  and  it  shall  be 
opened  unto  you."  She  had  read  it  be 
fore.  I  was  familiar  with  it,  but  in  the 
light  of  that  day's  experience  it  had  a  new 
meaning.  She  warned  me,  however,  that 
my  name  was  neither  Pilgrim  nor  Withero, 
and  in  elucidating  her  meaning  she  ex 
plained  the  phrase,  "  The  wind  bloweth 
where  it  listeth."  I  learned  to  listen  for 
the  sound  thereof  and  I  wondered  from 
whence  it  came,  not  only  the  wind  of  the 
heavens,  but  the  spirit  that  moved  men  in 
so  many  directions. 

The   last   act   of   that   memorable   night 

159 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

was  the  making  of  a  picture.  It  took  many 
years  to  find  out  its  meaning,  but  every 
stroke  of  the  brush  is  as  plain  to  me  now 
as  they  were  then. 

"Ye '11  do  somethin'   for  me?" 

"  Aye,  aanything  in  th'  world." 

'Ye  won't  glunch  nor  ask  questions?" 

"  Not  a  question." 

"  Shut  yer  eyes  an'  stan'  close  t'  th' 
table."  I  obeyed.  She  put  into  each  hand 
a  smooth  stick  with  which  Jamie  had 
smoothed  the  soles  of  shoes. 

"  Jist  for  th'  now  these  are  the  handles 
of  a  plow.  Keep  yer  eyes  shut  tight. 
Ye  've  seen  a  maan  plowin'  a  field  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  Think  that  ye  see  a  long,  long  field. 
Ye  're  plowin'  it.  The  other  end  is  so  far 
away  ye  can't  see  it.  Ye  see  a  wee  bit  of 
the  furrow,  jist  a  wee  bit.  Squeeze  th' 
plow  handles."  I  squeezed. 

"  D  'ye  see  th'  trees  yonder  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

160 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

"An5  th'  birds  pickin'  in  th'   furrow?" 

"Ay-e." 

She  took  the  sticks  away  and  gently 
pushed  me  on  a  stool  and  told  me  I  might 
open  my  eyes. 

"  That 's  quare,"   I  said. 

"  Listen,  dear,  ye  've  put  yer  han'  t'  th' 
plow;  ye  must  niver,  niver  take  it  away. 
All  through  life  ye  '11  haave  thim  plow 
handles  in  yer  han's  an'  ye  '11  be  goin'  down 
th'  furrow.  Ye  '11  crack  a  stone  here  and 
there,  th'  plow  '11  stick  often  an'  things  '11 
be  out  of  gear,  but  yer  in  th'  furrow  all  the 
time.  Ye  '11  change  horses,  ye  '11  change 
clothes,  ye  '11  change  yerself,  but  ye  '11  al 
ways  be  in  the  furrow,  plowin',  plowin', 
plowin' !  I  '11  go  a  bit  of  th'  way,  Jamie  '11 
go  a  bit,  yer  brothers  an'  sisters  a  bit,  but 
we  '11  dhrap  out  wan  b'  wan.  Ye  're  God's 
plowmaan." 

As  I  stood  to  say  good-night  she  put 
her  hand  on  my  head  and  muttered  some 
thing  that  was  not  intended  for  me  to  hear. 
161 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Then    she    kissed    me    good    night    and    I 
climbed  to  my  pallet  under  the  thatch. 

I  was  afraid  to  sleep,  lest  the  "  feelin'  ' 
should  take  wings.  When  I  was  convinced 
that  some  of  it,  at  least,  would  remain,  I 
tried  to  sleep  and  could  n't.  The  mingled 
ecstasy  and  excitement  was  too  intense.  I 
heard  the  town  clock  strike  the  hours  far 
into  the  morning. 

Before  she  awoke  next  morning  I 
had  exhausted  every  agency  in  the  house 
that  would  coordinate  flesh  and  spirit. 
When  I  was  ready  I  tiptoed  to  her  bedside 
and  touched  her  on  the  cheek.  Instantly 
she  awoke  and  sat  upright.  I  put  my 
hands  on  my  hips  and  danced  before  her. 
It  was  a  noiseless  dance  with  bare  feet  on 
the  mud  floor. 

Her  long  thin  arms  shot  out  toward  me 
and  I  buried  myself  in  them.  "  So  it 
stayed,"  she  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"  Aye,  an'  there 's  more  of  it." 

She  arose  and  dressed  quickly.     A  live 
162 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

coal  was  scraped  out  of  the  ashes  and  a 
turf  fire  built  around  it.  My  feet  were 
winged  as  I  flew  to  the  town  well  for  water. 
When  I  returned  she  had  several  slices  of 
toast  ready.  Toast  was  a  luxury.  Of 
course  there  was  always  —  or  nearly 
always  —  bread,  and  often  there  was  but 
ter,  but  toast  to  the  very  poor  in  those  days 
was  n't  merely  a  matter  of  bread  and  butter, 
fire  and  time!  It  was  more  often  inclina 
tion  that  turned  the  balance  for  or  against 
it,  and  inclination  always  came  on  the  back 
of  some  emotion,  chance  or  circumstance. 
Here  all  the  elements  met  and  the  result 
was  toast. 

I  took  a  mouthful  of  her  tea  out  of  her 
cup;  she  reciprocated.  We  were  like  chil 
dren.  Maybe  we  were.  Love  tipped  our 
tongues,  winged  our  feet,  opened  our  hearts 
and  hands  and  permeated  every  thought  and 
act.  She  stood  at  the  mouth  of  the  entry 
until  I  disappeared  at  the  town  head. 
While  I  was  yet  within  sight  I  looked  back 
half  a  dozen  times  and  we  waved  our  hands. 
163 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

It  was  nearly  a  year  before  a  dark  line 
entered  this  spiritual  spectrum.  It  was  in 
evitable  that  such  a  mental  condition  — 
ever  in  search  of  a  larger  expression  — 
should  gravitate  toward  the  Church.  It 
has  seemed  also  that  it  was  just  as  in 
evitable  that  the  best  thought  of  which  the 
Church  has  been  the  custodian  should  be 
crystallized  into  a  creed.  I  was  promoted 
to  the  "  big  house."  There,  of  course,  I 
was  overhauled  and  put  in  touch  with  the 
fittings  and  furniture.  As  a  flunkey  I  had 
my  first  dose  of  boiled  linen  and  I  liked  it. 

I  was  enabled  now  to  attend  church  and 
Sunday  School.  Indeed,  I  would  have  gone 
there,  religion  or  no  religion,  for  where 
else  could  I  have  sported  a  white  shirt  and 
collar?  With  my  boiled  linen  and  my 
brain  stuffed  with  texts  I  gradually  drew 
away  from  the  chimney-corner  and  never 
again  did  I  help  Willie  Withero  to  carry 
his  hammers.  Ah,  if  one  could  only  go 
back  over  life  and  correct  the  mistakes. 
164 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

Gradually  I  lost  the  warm  human  feeling 
and  substituted  for  it  a  theology.  I  began 
to  look  upon  my  mother  as  one  about 
whose  salvation  there  was  some  doubt.  I 
urged  her  to  attend  church.  Forms  and 
ceremonies  became  the  all-important  things 
and  the  life  and  the  spirit  were  proportion 
ately  unimportant.  I  became  mildewed 
with  the  blight  of  respectability.  I  became 
the  possessor  of  a  hard  hat  that  I  might 
ape  the  respectables.  I  walked  home  every 
night  from  Ballycraigie  with  Jamie 
Wallace,  and  Jamie  was  the  best-dressed 
working  man  in  the  town.  I  was  treading 
a  well-worn  pathway.  I  was  "  getting  on." 
A  good  slice  of  my  new  religion  consisted 
in  excellency  of  service  to  my  employers 
—  my  "  betters."  Preacher,  priest  and 
peasant  thought  alike  on  these  topics. 
Anna  was  pleased  to  see  me  in  a  new  garb, 
but  she  noticed  and  I  noticed  that  I  had 
grown  away  from  the  corner.  In  the  light 
of  my  new  adjustment  I  saw  duties  plainer, 
165 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

but  duty  may  become  a  hammer  by  which 
affection  may  be  beaten  to  death. 

I  imagined  the  plow  was  going  nicely 
in  the  furrow,  for  I  was  n't  conscious  of 
striking  any  snags  or  stones,  but  Anna  said : 

"  A  plowman  who  skims  th'  surface  of 
th'  sod  strikes  no  stones,  dear,  but  it 's 
because  he  is  n't  plowin'  deep! " 

I  have  plowed  deep  enough  since,  but  too 
late  to  go  back  and  compare  notes. 

She  was  pained,  but  tried  to  hide  it.  If 
she  was  on  the  point  of  tears  she  would 
tell  a  funny  story. 

"  Acushla,"  she  said  to  me  one  night 
after  a  theological  discussion,  "  sure  ye 
remind  me  of  a  ducklin'  hatched  by  a 
hen." 

"Why?" 

"  We  're  at  home  in  conthrary  elements. 
Ye  use  texts  t'  fight  with  an'  I  use  thim  to 
get  pace  of  heart !  " 

"  Are  you  wiser  nor  Mr.  Holmes,  an' 
William  Brennan  an'  Miss  McGee?"  I 
1 66 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

asked.  "  Them  's  th'  ones  that  think  as  I 
do  —  I  mane  I  think  as  they  do ! " 

"  No,  'deed  I  'm  not  as  wise  as  aany  of 
thim,  but  standin'  outside  a  wee  bit  I  can 
see  things  that  can't  be  seen  inside.  Forby 
they  haave  no  special  pathway  t'  God  that 's 
shut  t'  me,  nor  yer  oul  father  nor  Willie 
Withero!" 

Sometimes  Jamie  took  a  hand.  Once 
when  he  thought  Anna  was  going  to  cry, 
in  an  argument,  he  wheeled  around  in  his 
seat  and  delivered  himself. 

"  I  '11  tell  ye,  Anna,  that  whelp  needs  a 
good  argyment  wi'  th'  tongs!  Jist  take 
thim  an'  hit  'im  a  skite  on  the  jaw  wi'  thim 
an'  I  '11  say,  '  Amen.'  " 

"  That 's  no  clinch  to  an  argyment,"  I 
said,  "  an  thruth  is  thruth !  " 

"  Aye,  an'  tongs  is  tongs !  An'  some  o' 
ye  young  upstarts  whin  ye  get  a  dickey  on 
an'  a  choke-me-tight  collar  think  yer  jist 
ready  t'  sit  down  t'  tay  wi'  God !  " 

Anna  explained  and  gave  me  more 
167 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

credit  than  was  due  me.  So  Jamie  ended 
the  colloquy  by  the  usual  cap  to  his  every 
climax. 

"  Well,  what  th'  -  -  do  I  know  about 
thim  things,  aanyway.  Let 's  haave  a  good 
cup  o'  tay  an'  say  no  more  about  it ! " 

The  more  texts  I  knew  the  more  fanat 
ical  I  became.  And  the  more  of  a 
fanatic  I  was  the  wider  grew  the  chasm 
that  divided  me  from  my  mother.  I 
talked  as  if  I  knew  "  every  saint  in  heaven 
and  every  divil  in  hell." 

She  was  more  than  patient  with  me, 
though  my  spiritual  conceit  must  have  given 
her  many  a  pang.  Antrim  was  just  begin 
ning  to  get  accustomed  to  my  new  habili 
ments  of  boots,  boiled  linen  and  hat  when 
I  left  to  "  push  my  fortune "  in  other 
parts.  My  enthusiasm  had  its  good  quali 
ties  too,  and  she  was  quick  to  recognize 
them,  quicker  than  to  notice  its  blemishes. 
My  last  hours  in  the  town  —  on  the  eve  of 
my  first  departure  —  I  spent  with  her.  "  I 
168 


WIND  BLOWETH  WHERE  IT  LISTETH 

feel  about  you,  dear,"  she  said,  laughing, 
"  as  Micky  Free  did  about  the  soul  of  his 
father  in  Purgatory.  He  had  been  payin' 
for  masses  for  what  seemed  to  him  an  un 
commonly  long  time.  '  How  's  th'  oul  bhoy 
gettin'  on?'  Micky  asked  the  priest. 
'  Purty  well,  Micky,  his  head  is  out' 
'  Begorra,  thin,  I  know  th'  rist  ov  'im  will 
be  out  soon  —  I  '11  pay  for  no  more 
masses ! '  Your  head  is  up  and  out  from 
the  bottom  of  th'  world,  and  I  haave  faith 
that  ye  '11  purty  soon  be  all  out,  an'  some 
day  ye  '11  get  the  larger  view,  for  ye  '11  be 
in  a  larger  place  an'  ye  '11  haave  seen  more 
of  people  an'  more  of  the  world." 

I  have  two  letters  of  that  period.  One 
I  wrote  her  from  Jerusalem  in  the  year 
1884.  As  I  read  the  yellow,  childish  epis 
tle  I  am  stung  with  remorse  that  it  is  full 
of  the  narrow  sectarianism  that  still  held 
me  in  its  grip.  The  other  is  dated  Antrim, 
July,  1884,  and  is  her  answer  to  my  sec 
tarian  appeal. 

169 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Dear  boy,"  she  says,  "  Antrim  has  had 
many  soldier  sons  in  far-off  lands,  but  you 
are  the  first,  I  think,  to  have  the  privilege 
of  visiting  the  Holy  Land.  Jamie  and  I 
are  proud  of  you.  All  the  old  friends 
have  read  your  letter.  They  can  hardly 
believe  it.  Don't  worry  about  our  souls. 
When  \ve  come  one  by  one  in  the  twilight 
of  life,  each  of  us,  Jamie  and  I,  will  have 
our  sheaves.  They  will  be  little  ones,  but 
we  are  little  people.  I  want  no  glory  here 
or  hereafter  that  Jamie  cannot  share.  I 
gave  God  a  plowman,  but  your  father  says 
I  must  chalk  half  of  that  to  his  account. 
Hold  tight  the  handles  and  plow  deep.  We 
watch  the  candle  and  every  wee  spark 
thrills  our  hearts,  for  we  know  it 's  a  letter 
from  you. 

"Your  loving  mother." 


170 


CHAPTER  IX 
"  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  TH'  CLOUDS  " 

HEN  the  bill-boards  an 
nounced  that  I  was  to  de 
liver  a  lecture  on  "  England 
in  the  Soudan  "  in  the  only 
hall  in  the  town,  Antrim 
turned  out  to  satisfy  its  curiosity.  "  How 
doth  this  man  know,  not  having  learned," 
the  wise  ones  said,  for  when  I  shook  the 
dust  of  its  blessed  streets  from  my  brogues 
seven  years  previously  I  was  an  illiterate. 
Anna  could  have  told  them,  but  none  of 
the  wise  knew  her,  for  curiously  enough  to 
those  who  knew  of  her  existence,  but  had 
never  seen  her,  she  was  known  as  "  Jamie's 
wife."  Butchers  and  bakers  and  candle 
stick  makers  were  there;  several  ministers, 
some  quality,  near  quality,  the  inhabitants 
of  the  entries  in  the  "  Scotch  quarter  "  and 
171 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

all  the  newsboys  in  town.  The  fact  that 
I  personally  bribed  the  newsboys  accounted 
for  their  presence.  I  bought  them  out 
and  reserved  the  front  seats  for  them.  It 
was  in  the  way  of  a  class  reunion  with  me. 
Billy  O'Hare  had  gone  beyond  —  where 
there  are  no  chimneys,  and  Ann  where  she 
could  keep  clean:  they  were  both  dead. 
Many  of  the  old  familiar  faces  were 
absent,  they  too  had  gone  —  some  to  other 
lands,  some  to  another  world.  Jamie  was 
there.  He  sat  between  Willie  Withero 
and  Ben  Baxter.  He  heard  little  of  what 
was  said  and  understood  less  of  what  he 
heard.  The  vicar,  Mr.  Holmes,  presided. 
There  was  a  vote  of  thanks,  followed  by 
the  customary  seconding  by  public  men, 
then  "  God  save  the  Queen,"  and  I  went 
home  to  tell  Anna  about  it. 

Jamie  took  one  arm  and  Withero  clung 
to  the  other. 

"Jamie!"  shouted  Withero  in  a  voice 
that  coujd  be  heard  by  the  crowd  that  fol- 

7? 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

lowed  us,  "  d  'ye  mind  th'  first  time  I  seen 
ye  wi'  Anna?  " 

"Aye,   'deed  I  do!" 

"  Ye  did  n't  know  it  was  in  'er,  did  ye, 
Jamie?" 

"Yer  a  liar,  Willie;  I  know'd  frum  th' 
minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  'er  that  she  was 
th'  finest  wuman  on  God's  f  utstool !  " 

"  Ye  can  haave  whativer  benefit  ov  th' 
doubt  there  is,  Jamie,  but  jist  th'  same  any 
oul  throllop  can  be  a  father,  but  by  G —  it 
takes  a  rale  wuman  t'  be  th'  mother  ov  a 
rale  maan.!  Put  that  in  yer  pipe  an* 
smoke  it." 

"  He  seems  t'  think,"  said  Jamie,  appeal 
ing  to  me,  "  that  only  quality  can  projuce 
fine  childther!" 

"  Yer  spakin'  ov  clothes,  Jamie ;  I  'm 
spakin'  ov  mind,  an'  ye  wor  behind  th' 
doore  whin  th'  wor  givin'  it  out,  but  be- 
gorra,  Anna  was  at  th'  head  ov  th'  class, 
an'  that 's  no  feerie  story,  naither,  is  it, 
me  bhoy?  " 

173 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

At  the  head  of  Pogue's  entry,  Bob 
Dougherty,  Tommy  Wilson,  Sam  Man- 
derson,  Lucinda  Gordon  and  a  dozen  others 
stopped  for  a  "  partin'  crack." 

The  kettle  was  boiling  on  the  chain. 
The  hearth  had  been  swept  and  a  new  coat 
of  whitening  applied.  There  was  a  can 
dle  burning  in  her  sconce  and  the  thin 
yellow  rays  lit  up  the  glory  on  her  face  — 
a  glory  that  was  encased  in  a  newly  tallied 
white  cap.  My  sister  sat  on  one  side  of 
the  fireplace  and  she  on  the  other  —  in  her 
corner.  I  did  not  wonder,  I  did  not  ask 
why  they  did  not  make  a  supreme  effort 
to  attend  the  lecture  —  I  knew.  They 
were  more  supremely  interested  than  I 
was.  They  had  never  heard  a  member  of 
the  family  or  a  relative  speak  in  public, 
and  their  last  chance  had  passed  by. 
There  they  were,  in  the  light  of  a  peat  fire 
and  the  tallow  dip,  supremely  happy. 

The  neighbors  came  in  for  a  word  with 
174 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

Anna.  They  filled  the  space.  The  stools 
and  creepies  were  all  occupied. 

"  Sit  down,  Willie,"  my  father  said. 
"  Take  a  nice  cushioned  chair  an'  be  at 
home."  Withero  was  leaning  against  the 
table.  He  saw  and  was  equal  to  the  joke. 

:'  Whin  nature  put  a  pilla  on  maan,  it 
was  intinded  fur  t'  sit  on  th'  groun', 
Jamie ! "  And  down  he  sat  on  the  mud 
floor. 

"  It 's  th'  proud  wuman  ye  shud  be  th' 
night,"  Marget  Hurll  said,  "an  Misther 
Armstrong  it  was  that  said  it  was  proud 
th'  town  shud  be  t'  turn  out  a  boy  like 
him!" 

Withero  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth 
and  spat  in  the  ashes  —  as  a  preface  to  a 
few  remarks. 

"  Aye,"  he  grunted,  "  I  cocked  m'  ears 
up  an'  dunched  oul  Jamie  whin  Armshtrong 
said  that.  Jamie  cud  n't  hear  it,  so  I 
whispered  t'  m'self,  '  Begorra,  if  a  wee  fella 

175 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

turns  up  whin  Anthrim  turns  'im  out  it 's 
little  credit  t'  Anthrim  I  'm  thinkin' ! '  " 

Anna  laughed  and  Jamie,  putting  his 
hand  behind  his  ear,  asked: 

"What's  that  — what's  that?" 

The  name  and  remarks  of  the  gentle 
man  who  seconded  the  vote  of  thanks  were 
repeated  to  him. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  "  he  laughed  as  he  slapped 
me  on  the  knee.  "Well,  well,  well,  if 
that  wud  n't  make  a  brass  monkey 
laugh !  " 

"  Say,"  he  said  to  me,  "  d  'ye  mind  th' 
night  ye  come  home  covered  wi'  clab 
ber—" 

"  Whisht !  "  I  said,  as  I  put  my  mouth 
to  his  ear.  "  I  only  want  to  mind  that  he 
had  three  very  beautiful  daughters!" 

"Did  ye  iver  spake  t'  aany  o'  thim?" 
Jamie  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"Whin?" 

"  When  I  sold  them  papers." 
1/6 


"  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS  " 

"  Ha,   ha,   a   ha'penny   connection,   eh?" 

"  It 's  betther  t'  mind  three  fine  things 
about  a  maan  than  wan  mean  thing,  Jamie," 
Anna  said. 

"  If  both  o'  ye  's  ori  me  I  'm  bate,"  he 
said. 

"  Stop  yer  palaver  an'  let 's  haave  a 
story  ov  th'  war  wi'  th'  naygars  in  Egypt/' 
Mrs.  Kuril  said. 

"  Aye,  that 's  right,"  one  of  the  Gainer 
boys  said.  "  Tell  us  what  th'  queen  give 
ye  a  medal  fur !  " 

They  wanted  a  story  of  blood,  so  I 
smeared  the  tale  red.  When  I  finished 
Anna  said,  "  Now  tell  thim,  dear,  what  ye 
tuk  th'  shillin'  fur!" 

"You  tell  them,  mother." 

"  Ye  tuk  it  t'  fight  ignorance  an'  not 
naygars,  did  n't  ye?"  , 

"  Yes,  but  that  fight  continues." 

"  Aye,  with  you,  but  - 

"  Ah,  never  mind,  mother,  I  have  taken 
it  up  where  you  laid  it  down,  and  long 
177 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

after  —  '  that  was  far  as  I  got,  for  Jamie 
exploded  just  then  and  said: 

"  Now  get  t'  h  —  1  home,  ivery  wan  o' 
ye,  an'  give  's  a  minute  wi'  'im  jist  for  our 
selves,  will  ye?" 

He  said  it  with  laughter  in  his  voice 
and  it  sounded  in  the  ears  of  those  present 
as  polite  and  pleasing  as  anything  in  the 
domain  of  their  amenities. 

They  arose  as  one,  all  except  Withero, 
and  he  could  n't,  for  Jamie  gripped  him 
by  a  leg  and  held  him  on  the  floor  just  as 
he  sat. 

In  their  good-night  expressions  the 
neighbors  unconsciously  revealed  what  the 
lecture  and  the  story  meant  to  them. 
Summed  up  it  meant,  "  Sure  it 's  jist 
wondtherful  ye  war  n't  shot!" 

When  we  were  alone,  alone  with 
Withero,  Mary  "  wet  "  a  pot  of  tea  and 
warmed  up  a  few  farrels  of  fadge,  and  we 
commenced.  Little  was  said,  but  feeling 
ran  high.  It  was  like  a  midnight  mass. 
178 


"  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS  " 

Anna  was  silent,  but  there  were  tears,  and 
as  I  held  her  in  my  arms  and  kissed  them 
away  Jamie  was  saying  to  Withero: 

"  Ye  might  take  'im  fur  a  dandther  out 
where  ye  broke  whin  we  first  met  ye, 
Willie!" 

"  Aye,"  Willie  said,  "  I  'm  m'  own  gaffer, 
I  will  that." 

I  slept  at  Jamie  Wallace's  that  night, 
and  next  morning  took  the  "  dandther " 
with  Withero  up  the  Dublin  road,  past 
"The  Mount  of  Temptation"  to  the  old 
stone-pile  that  was  no  longer  a  pile,  but  a 
hole  in  the  side  of  the  road.  It  was  a  sen 
timental  journey  that  gave  Willie  a  chance 
to  say  some  things  I  knew  he  wanted  to 
say. 

"  D  'ye  mind  the  pirta  sack  throusers 
Anna  made  ye  onct?" 

"Yes,  what  of  them?" 

"  Did  ye  iver  think  ye  cud  git  used  t' 
aanything  if  ye  wor  forced  t'  haave  nothin' 
else  fur  a  while  ?  " 

179 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"What's   the  point,   Willie?" 
"  Sit  down  here  awhile  an'  I  '11  tell  ye." 
We  sat  down  on  the  bank  of  the  road 
side.     He  took  out  his  pipe,  steel  and  flint, 
filled  his  pipe  and  talked  as  he  filled. 

"  Me  an'  Jamie  wor  pirta  sack  people, 
purty  damned  rough,  too,  but  yer  Ma  was 
a  piece  ov  fine  linen  frum  th'  day  she 
walked  down  this  road  wi'  yer  Dah  till  this 
minit  whin  she  's  waitin'  fur  ye  in  the  cor 
ner.  Ivery  Sunday  I  've  gone  in  jist  t'  hai 
a  crack  wi'  'er  an'  d'  ye  know,  bhoy,  I  got 
out  o'  that  crack  somethin'  good  fur  th' 
week.  She  was  i'hell  on  sayin'  words 
purcisely,  but  me  an'  Jamie  wor  too  thick, 
an'  begorra  she  got  used  t'  pirta  sack  words 
herself,  but  she  was  i'  fine  linen  jist  th' 
same. 

"  Wan  day  she  says  t'  me,  '  Willie,'  says 
she,  '  ye  see  people  through  dirty  specs.' 
'  How  's  that  ?  '  says  I.  '  I  don't  know/ 
says  she,  '  fur  I  don't  wear  yer  specs,  but 
I  think  it 's  jist  a  poor  habit  ov  yer  mind. 
1 80 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

Aych  poor  craither  is  made  up  ov  some 
good  an'  much  that  is  n't  s'  good,  an'  ye 
see  only  what  is  n't  s'  good ! ' 

"  Thin  she  towld  m'  somethin'  which 
she  niver  towld  aanyone  else,  'cept  yer  Dah, 
ov  coorse.  '  Willie,'  says  she,  '  fur  twenty 
years  I  've  seen  th'  Son  ov  Maan  ivery  day 
ov  m'  life! ' 

"'How's  that?'  says  I. 

"  '  I  've  more  'n  seen  'm.  I  Ve  made  tay 
fur  'im,  an'  broth  on  Sunday.  I  've 
mended  'is  oul  duds,  washed  'is  dhirty 
clothes,  shuk  'is  han',  stroked  'is  hair  an' 
said  kind  words  to  'im ! ' 

"  '  God  Almighty ! '  says  I,  '  yer  goin' 
mad,  Anna ! '  She  tuk  her  oul  Bible  an' 
read  t'  me  these  words ;  I  mind  thim  well : 

"  *  Whin  ye  do  it  t'  wan  o'  these  craithers 
ye  do  it  t'  me ! ' 

"  Well,   me   bhoy,   I  thunk   an'   I   thunk 

over  thim  words  an'  wud  ye  believe  it  — 

I  begun  t'   clane  m'   specs.     Wan  day   th' 

'  Dummy '    came    along    t'    m'    stone-pile. 

181 


MY   LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

Ye  mind  'er,  don't  ye?"  (The  Dummy 
was  a  harlot,  who  lived  in  the  woods  up 
the  Dublin  road  in  summer,  and  Heaven 
only  knows  where  in  winter.) 

"  Th'  Dummy,"  Willie  continued,  "  came 
over  t'  th'  pile  an'  acted  purty  gay,  but 
says  I,  '  Dummy,  if  there  's  any  thin'  I  kin 
give  ye  I  '11  give  it,  but  there  's  nothin'  ye 
kin  give  me ! ' 

" '  Ye  break  stones  fur  a  livin','  says  she. 

"  '  Aye,'  says  I. 

" '  What  wud  ye  do  if  ye  wor  a  lone  wu- 
man  an'  cud  n't  get  nothin'  at  all  t'  do  ? ' 

"  *  I  dunno,'  says  I. 

" '  I  don't  want  to  argufy  or  palaver  wi' 
a  dacent  maan,'  says  she,  '  but  I  'm  terrible 
hungry.' 

"  '  Luk  here,'  says  I,  '  I  've  got  a  dozen 
pirtas  I  'm  goin'  t'  roast  fur  m'  dinner. 
I  '11  roast  thim  down  there  be  that  gate, 
an'  I  '11  lave  ye  six  an'  a  dhrink  ov  butther- 
milk.  Whin  ye  see  m'  lave  th'  gate  ye  '11 
know  yer  dinner 's  ready.' 
182 


"  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS  " 

'  God  save  ye,'  says  she,  *  may  yer  meal 
barrel  niver  run  empty  an'  may  yer  bread 
foriver  be  roughcasted  wi'  butther ! ' 

"  I  begun  t'  swither  whin  she  left.  Says 
I,  '  Withero,  is  yer  specs  clane  ?  Kin  ye 
see  th'  Son  ov  Maan  in  th'  Dummy?' 
'  Begorra,  I  dunno,'  says  I  t'  m'self.  I 
scratched  m'  head  an'  swithered  till  I 
thought  m'  brains  wud  turn  t'  stone. 

"Says  I  t'  m'self  at  last,  'Aye,  'deed 
there  must  be  th'  spark  there  what  Anna 
talks  about ! '  Jist  then  I  heard  yer 
mother's  voice  as  plain  as  I  hear  m'  own 
now  at  this  minute  —  an'  what  d'  ye  think 
Anna  says  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Willie." 

"  '  So  ye  haave  th'  Son  ov  Maan  t'  dinner 
th'  day  ?  '  '  Aye,'  says  I. 

"  '  An'  givin'  'im  yer  lavins ! ' 

"  It  was  like  a  piece  ov  stone  cuttin'  the 
ball  ov  m'  eye.  It  cut  deep! 

"  I  ran  down  th'  road  an'  says  I  t'  th' 
Dummy,  '  I  '11  tie  a  rag  on  a  stick  an'  whin 
183 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

ye  see  m'  wavin'  it  come  an'  take  yer  dinner 
an'  I'll  take  what's  left!' 

"  I  did  n't  wait  fur  no  answer,  but  went 
and  did  what  I  shud. 

"  That  summer  whin  she  was  hungry  she 
hung  an  oul  rag  on  th'  thorn  hedge  down  be 
the  wee  plantain  where  she  camped,  and 
I  answered  be  a  rag  on  a  stick  that  she  cud 
share  mine  and  take  hers  first.  One  day 
I  towld  'er  yer  mother's  story  about  th' 
Son  ov  Maan.  It  was  th'  only  time  I  ever 
talked  wi'  'er.  That  winther  she  died  in 
th'  poorhouse  and  before  she  died  she  sint 
me  this."  He  pulled  out  of  an  inside 
pocket  a  piece  of  paper  yellow  with  age 
and  so  scuffed  with  handling  that  the  scrawl 
was  scarcely  legible: 

Mr.  Withero 

Stone  breaker 
Dublin  Road 

Antrim 

"  I  seen  Him  in  the  ward  last  night  and 
I  'm  content  to  go  now.  God  save  you  kindly. 

THE  DUMMY." 
184 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

Withero  having  unburdened,  we  dan- 
dered  down  the  road,  through  Masserene 
and  home. 

I  proposed  to  Anna  a  little  trip  to  Lough 
Neagh  in  a  jaunting  car. 

"  No,  dear,,  it 's  no  use ;  I  want  to  mind 
it  jist  as  Jamie  and  I  saw  it  years  an' 
years  ago.  I  see  it  here  in  th'  corner  jist 
as  plain  as  I  saw  it  then;  forby  Antrim 
wud  never  get  over  th'  shock  of  seein' 
me  in  a  jauntin'  car." 

"  Then  I  '11  tell  you  of  a  shorter  jour 
ney.  You  have  never  seen  the  Steeple. 
It 's  the  most  perfect  of  all  the  Round 
Towers  in  Ireland  and  just  one  mile  from 
this  corner.  Now  don't  deny  me  the  joy 
of  taking  you  there.  I  '11  guide  you  over 
the  strand  and  away  back  of  the  poorhouse, 
out  at  the  station,  and  then  it 's  just  a 
hundred  yards  or  so !  " 

It  took  the  combined  efforts  of  Jamie, 
Withero,  Mary  and  me  to  persuade  her, 
but  she  was  finally  persuaded,  and  dressed 
185 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

in  a  borrowed  black  knitted  cap  and  her 
wee  Sunday  shawl,  she  set  out  with  us. 

"  This  is  like  a  weddin',"  Jamie  said,  as 
he  tied  the  ribbons  under  her  chin. 

"  Oh,  it 's  worse,  dear.  It 's  a  circus 
an'  wake  in  wan,  fur  I  'm  about  dead  an* 
he 's  turned  clown  for  a  while."  In  five 
minutes  everybody  in  Pogue's  entry  heard 
the  news.  They  stood  at  the  door  waiting 
to  have  a  look. 

Matty  McGrath  came  in  to  see  if  there 
was  "  aanythin'  "  she  could  do. 

"  Aye,"  Anna  said,  smiling,  "  ye  can  go 
over  an'  tell  oul  Ann  Agnew  where  I  'm 
goin'  so  she  won't  worry  herself  t'  death 
findin'  out!" 

"  She  won't  see  ye,"  Jamie  said. 

"  She  'd  see  a  fly  if  it  lit  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  her !  " 

We  went  down  the  Kill  entry  and  over 

the  rivulet  we  called  "  the  strand."     There 

were  stepping  stones  in  the  water  and  the 

passage  was  easy.     As  we  crossed  she  said: 

186 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

"  Right  here  was  th'  first  place  ye  ever 
came  t'  see  th'  sun  dance  on  th'  water  on 
Easter  Sunday  mornin'." 

We  turned  to  the  right  and  walked  by 
the  old  burying  ground  of  the  Unitarian 
meeting-house  and  past  Mr.  Smith's  gar 
den.  Next  to  Smith's  garden  was  the 
garden  of  a  cooper  —  I  think  his  name  was 
Farren.  "  Right  here,"  I  said,  "  is  where 
I  commited  my  first  crime!" 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Stealing  apples !  " 

"Aye,  what  a  townful  of  criminals  we 
had  then!" 

We  reached  the  back  of  the  poorhouse. 
James  Gardner  was  the  master  of  it,  and 
"  goin'  t'  Jamie  Gardner "  was  under 
stood  as  the  last  march  of  many  of  the  in 
habitants  of  Antrim,  beginning  with  "  Tot- 
ther  Jack  Welch,"  who  was  a  sort  of  pauper 
primus  inter  pares  of  the  town. 

As  we  passed  the  little  graveyard,  we 
stood  and  looked  over  the  fence  at  the 


MY   LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

little  boards,  all  of  one  size  and  one  pattern, 
that  marked  each  grave. 

"  God  in  Heaven ! "  she  exclaimed, 
"  is  n't  it  fearful  not  to  git  rid  of  pov 
erty  even  in  death ! "  I  saw  a  shudder 
pass  over  her  face  and  I  turned  mine 
away. 

Ten  minutes  later  we  emerged  from  the 
fields  at  the  railway  station. 

"  You  've  never  seen  Mr.  McKillop,  the 
station  master,  have  you?"  I  asked. 

"  No." 

"  Let  us  wait  here  for  a  minute,  we  may 
see  him." 

"  Oh,  no,  let 's  hurry  on  t'  th'  Steeple!  " 
So  on  we  hurried. 

It  took  a  good  deal  of  courage  to  enter 
when  we  got  there,  for  the  far-famed 
Round  Tower  of  Antrim  is  private 
property.  Around  it  is  a  stone  wall  en 
closing  the  grounds  of  an  estate.  The 
Tower  stands  near  the  house  of  the  owner, 
and  it  takes  temerity  in  the  poor  to  enter. 
1 88 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

They  seldom  do  enter,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
for  they  are  not  particularly  interested  in 
archeology. 

We  timidly  entered  and  walked  up  to 
the  Tower. 

"So  that's  th'  Steeple!" 

"Isn't  it  fine?" 

"  Aye,  it 's  wondtherful,  but  wud  n't  it 
be  nice  t'  take  our  boots  off  an'  jist  walk 
aroun'  on  this  soft  nice  grass  on  our  bare 
feet?" 

The  lawn  was  closely  clipped  and  as  level 
as  a  billiard  table.  The  trees  were  dressed 
in  their  best  summer  clothing.  Away  in 
the  distance  we  caught  glimpses  of  an 
abundance  of  flowers.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  perfume  of  honeysuckle  and  sweet 
clover.  Anna  drank  in  the  scenery  with 
almost  childish  delight. 

"  D'  ye  think  heaven  will  be  as  nice?" 
she  asked. 

"  Maybe." 

"If  it  is,  we  will  take  our  boots  off  an' 
189 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

sit   down,   won't  we  ? "     And   she   laughed 
like  a  girl. 

"  If  there  are  boots  in  the  next  world," 
I  said,  "  there  will  be  cobblers,  and  you 
would  n't  want  our  old  man  to  be  a 
cobbler  to  all  eternity?  " 

"  You  're  right,"  she  said,  "  nor  afther 
spending  seventy-five  years  here  without 
bein'  able  to  take  my  boots  off  an'  walk  on 
a  nice  lawn  like  this  wud  I  care  to  spend 
eternity  without  that  joy !  " 

"Do  we  miss  what  we've  never  had?" 

"  Aye,  'deed  we  do.  I  miss  most  what 
I 've  never  had !  " 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"  Oh,  I  '11  tell  ye  th'  night  when  we  're 
alone!" 

We  walked  around  the  Tower  and  ven 
tured  once  beneath  the  branches  of  a  big 
tree. 

"  If  we  lived  here,  d'  ye  know  what  I  'd 
like  t'  do?" 

"  No." 

190 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

"  Jist  take  our  boots  off  an'  play  hide 
and  go  seek  —  wud  n't  it  be  fun  ?  " 

I  laughed  loudly. 

"  Whisht !  "  she  said.  "  They  '11  catch  us 
if  you  make  a  noise!" 

'  You  seem  bent  on  getting  your  boots 
off!"  I  said  laughingly.  Her  reply  struck 
me  dumb. 

"  Honey,"  she  said,  so  softly  and  looking 
into  my  eyes,  "  do  ye  realize  that  I  have 
never  stood  on  a  patch  of  lawn  in  my  life 
before?" 

Hand  in  hand  we  walked  toward  the 
gate,  taking  an  occasional,  wistful  glance 
back  at  the  glory  of  the  few,  and  thinking, 
both  of  us,  of  the  millions  of  tired  feet 
that  never  felt  the  softness  of  a  smooth 
green  sward. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  night  the  door  was 
shut  and  barred. 

Jamie  tacked  several  copies  of  the 
Weekly  Budget  over  the  window  and  we 
were  alone. 

191 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

We  talked  of  old  times.  We  brought 
back  the  dead  and  smiled  or  sighed  over 
them.  Old  tales,  of  the  winter  nights  of 
long  ago,  were  retold  with  a  new  interest. 

The  town  clock  struck  nine. 

We  sat  in  silence  as  we  used  to  sit, 
while  another  sexton  tolled  off  the  days  of 
the  month  after  the  ringing  of  the  cur 
few. 

"  Many  's  th'  time  ye  've  helter-skeltered 
home  at  th'  sound  of  that  bell !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  because  the  sound  of  the  bell 
was  always  accompanied  by  a  vision  of  a 
wet  welt  hanging  over  the  edge  of  the  tub !  " 

Jamie  laughed   and  became   reminiscent. 

"  D'  ye  mind  what  ye  said  wan  time  whin 
I  bate  ye  wi'  th'  stirrup?  " 

"  No,  but  I  used  to  think  a  good  deal 
more  than  I  said." 

"  Aye,  but  wan  time  I  laid  ye  across  m' 
knee  an'   give  ye  a  good  shtrappin',   then 
stud  ye  up  an'  says  I,  '  It  hurts  me  worse 
than  it  hurts  ye,  ye  divil ! ' 
192 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

"  '  Aye,'  says  you,  '  but  it  diz  n't  hurt  ye 
in  th'  same  place ! ' 

"  I  don't  remember,  but  from  time  im 
memorial  boys  have  thought  and  said  the 
same  thing." 

"D'ye  mind  when  /  bate  ye?"  Anna 
asked  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you  solemnly  prom 
ised  Jamie  you  would  punish  me  and  when 
he  went  down  to  Barney's  you  took  a  long 
straw  and  lashed  me  fearfully  with  it! " 

The  town  clock  struck  ten. 

Mary,  who  had  sat  silent  all  evening, 
kissed  us  all  good  night  and  went  to  bed. 

I  was  at  the  point  of  departure  for  the 
New  World.  Jamie  wanted  to  know  what 
I  was  going  to  do.  I  outlined  an  ambition, 
but  its  outworking  was  a  problem.  It  was 
beyond  his  ken.  He  could  not  take  in  the 
scope  of  it.  Anna  could,  for  she  had  it 
from  the  day  she  first  felt  the  movement 
of  life  in  me.  It  was  unpretentious  — 
nothing  the  world  would  call  great. 

193 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Och,  maan,  but  that  wud  be  th'  proud 
day  fur  Anna  if  ye  cud  do  it." 

When  the  town  clock  struck  eleven, 
Anna  trembled. 

"  Yer  cowld,  Anna,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  put 
on  a  few  more  turf." 

"  There 's  plenty  on,  dear ;  I  'm  not  cold 
in  my  body." 

"  Acushla,  m'  oul  hide  's  like  a  buffalo's 
or  I  'd  see  that  ye  want  'im  t'  yerself.  I  'm 
off  t'  bed!" 

We  sat  in  silence  gazing  into  the  peat 
fire.  Memory  led  me  back  down  the  road 
to  yesterday.  She  was  out  in  the  future 
and  wandering  in  an  unknown  continent 
with  only  hope  to  guide  her.  Yet  we  must 
get  together,  and  that  quickly. 

"  Minutes  are  like  fine  gold  now,"  she 
said,  "  an'  my  tongue  seems  glued,  but  I 
jist  must  spake." 

"We  have  plenty  of  time,  mother." 

"  Plenty !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Every 
clang  of  th'  town  clock  is  a  knife  cuttin' 
194 


"  BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS  " 

th'     cords  —  wan     afther     another  —  that 
bind  me  t'  ye." 

"  I  want  to  know  about  your  hope,  your 
outlook,  your  religion,"  I  said. 

"  Th'  biggest  hope  I  Ve  ever  had  was  t' 
bear  a  chile  that  would  love  everybody  as 
yer  father  loved  me !  " 

"  A  sort  of  John-three-sixteen  in  minia 
ture." 

"  Aye." 

"  The  aim  is  high  enough  to  begin 
with!" 

"Not  too  high!" 

"And  your  religion?" 

"  All  in  all,  it 's  bein'  kind  an'  lovin' 
kindness.  That  takes  in  God  an'  maan  an' 
Pogue's  entry  an'  th'  world." 

The  town  clock  struck  twelve.  Each 
clang  "  a  knife  cutting  a  cord  "  and  each 
heavier  and  sharper  than  the  last.  Each 
one  vibrating,  tingling,  jarring  along  every 
nerve,  sinew  and  muscle.  A  feeling  of 
numbness  crept  over  me. 
195 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  That 's  the  end  of  life  for  me,"  she  said 
slowly.  There  was  a  pause,  longer  and 
more  intense  than  all  the  others. 

"  Maybe  ye  '11   get  rich  an'    forget." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  rich.  I  shall  be  a  mil 
lionaire —  a  millionaire  of  love,  but  no  one 
shall  ever  take  your  place,  dear ! " 

My  overcoat  served  as  a  pillow.  An 
old  quilt  made  a  pallet  on  the  hard  floor. 
I  found  myself  being  pressed  gently  down 
from  the  low  creepie  to  the  floor.  I  pre 
tended  to  sleep.  Her  hot  tears  fell  on  my 
face.  Her  dear  toil-worn  fingers  were 
run  gently  through  my  hair.  She  was  on 
her  knees  by  my  side.  The  tender  mys 
ticism  of  her  youth  came  back  and  ex 
pressed  itself  in  prayer.  It  was  inter 
spersed  with  tears  and  "  Ave  Maria !  " 

When  the  first  streak  of  dawn  pene 
trated  the  old  window  we  had  our  last  cup 
of  tea  together  and  later,  when  I  held  her 
in  a  long,  lingering  embrace,  there  were  no 
tears  —  we  had  shed  them  all  in  the  silence 
196 


"BEYOND  TH'  MEADOWS  AN'  CLOUDS" 

of  the  last  vigil.  When  I  was  ready  to  go, 
she  stood  with  her  arm  on  the  old  yellow 
mantel-shelf.  She  was  rigid  and  pale  as 
death,  but  around  her  eyes  and  her  mouth 
there  played  a  smile.  There  was  a  look 
ineffable  of  maternal  love. 

"  We  shall  meet  again,  mother,"  I  said. 

"  Aye,  dearie,  I  know  rightly  we  '11  meet, 
but  ochanee,  it  '11  be  out  there  beyond  th* 
meadows  an'  th'  clouds." 


197 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  EMPTY  CORNER 

HEN  I  walked  into  Pogue's 
entry     about     fifteen     years 
later,  it  seemed  like  walking 
into  another  world  —  I  was 
a  foreigner. 
"  How    quare    ye    spake ! "    Jamie    said, 
and  Mary  added  demurely: 

"  Is  it  quality  ye  are  that  ye  spake  like 
it?" 

"  No,  faith,  not  at  all,"  I  said,  "  but  it 's 
the  quality  of  America  that  makes  me !  " 
"  Think  of  that,  now,"  she  exclaimed. 
The   neighbors    came,   new   neighbors  — 
a  new  generation,  to  most  of  whom  I  was 
a  tradition.     Other  boys  and  girls  had  left 
Antrim  for  America,  scores  of  them  in  the 
course  of  the  years.     There  was  a  popular 
supposition  that  we  all  knew  each  other. 
198 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


"  Ye  see  th'  Wilson  bhoys  ivery  day,  I  '11 
bate,"  Mrs.  Hainey  said. 

"  No,  I  have  never  seen  any  of  them." 

"Saints  alive,   how's  that?" 

"  Because  we  live  three  thousand  miles 
apart." 

"  Aye,  well,  shure  that  'ud  be  quite  a 
dandther !  " 

"  It  did  n't  take  ye  long  t'  git  a  fortune, 
did  it  ?  "  another  asked. 

"  I  never  acquired  a  fortune  such  as  you 
are  thinking  of." 

"  Anna  said  ye  wor  rich !  " 

"  Anna  was  right,  I  am  rich,  but  I  was 
the  richest  boy  in  Antrim  when  I  lived 
here." 

They  looked  dumbfounded. 

"How's  that?"    Mrs.    Conner   queried. 

"  Because   Anna  was   my   mother." 

I  did  n't  want  to  discuss  Anna  at  that 
time  or  to  that  gathering,  so  I  gave  the 
conversation  a  sudden  turn  and  diplomatic 
ally  led  them  in  another  direction.  I  ex- 
199 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

plained  how  much  easier  it  was  for  a 
policeman  than  a  minister  to  make  a  "  for 
tune  "  and  most  Irishmen  in  America  had 
a  special  bias  toward  law!  Jamie  had 
grown  so  deaf  that  he  could  only  hear 
when  I  shouted  into  his  ear.  Visitors  kept 
on  coming,  until  the  little  house  was  un 
comfortably  full. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fine,"  I  shouted  into 
Jamie's  ear,  "  if  Billy  O'Hare  or  Withero 
could  just  drop  in  now?" 

"  God  save  us  all,"  he  said,  "  th'  oul  days 
an'  oul  faces  are  gone  foriver."  After 
some  hours  of  entertainment  the  unin 
vited  guests  were  invited  to  go  home. 

I  pulled  Jamie's  old  tub  out  into  the 
center  of  the  floor  and,  taking  my  coat  off, 
said  gently :  "  Now,  good  neighbors,  I 
have  traveled  a  long  distance  and  need  a 
bath,  and  if  you  don't  mind  I  '11  have  one 
at  once ! " 

They  took  it  quite  seriously  and  went 
home  quickly.  As  soon  as  the  house  was 
200 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


cleared  I  shut  and  barred  the  door  and 
Mary  and  I  proceeded  to  prepare  the  even 
ing  meal. 

I  brought  over  the  table  and  put  it  in 
its  place  near  the  fire.  In  looking  over 
the  old  dresser  I  noticed  several  additions 
to  the  inventory  I  knew.  The  same  old 
plates  were  there,  many  of  them  broken 
and  arranged  to  appear  whole.  All  holes, 
gashes,  dents  and  cracks  were  turned  back 
or  down  to  deceive  the  beholder.  There 
were  few  whole  pieces  on  the  dresser. 

"  Great  guns,  Mary,"  I  exclaimed,  "  here 
are  two  new  plates  and  a  new  cup!  Well, 
well,  and  you  never  said  a  word  in  any  of 
your  letters  about  them." 

"  Ye  need  n't  get  huffed  if  we  don't 
tell  ye  all  the  startlin'  things ! "  Mary 
said. 

"  Ah !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  there  's  her  cup !  " 

I   took  the  precious  thing  from  the  shelf. 

The  handle  was  gone,  there  was  a  gash  at 

the    lip    and    a    few    new    cracks    circling 

201 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

around  the  one  I  was  familiar  with  twenty 
years  previously. 

What  visions  of  the  past  came  to  me  in 
front  of  that  old  dresser!  How  often  in 
the  long  ago  she  had  pushed  that  old  cup 
gently  toward  me  along  the  edge  of  the 
table  —  gently,  to  escape  notice  and  avoid 
jealousy.  Always  at  the  bottom  of  it  a 
teaspoonful  of  her  tea  and  beneath  the  tea 
a  bird's-eye-full  of  sugar.  Each  fairy  pic 
ture  of  straggling  tea  leaves  was  our 
moving  picture  show  of  those  old  days. 
We  all  had  tea  leaves,  but  she  had  imag 
ination.  How  we  laughed  and  sighed  and 
swithered  over  the  fortunes  spread  out 
all  over  the  inner  surface  of  that  cup! 

"If  ye  stand  there  affrontin'  our  poor 
oul  delf  all  night  we  won't  haave  aany  tea 
at  all !  "  Mary  said.  The  humor  had  gone 
from  my  face  and  speech  from  my  tongue. 
I  felt  as  one  feels  when  he  looks  for  the 
last  time  upon  the  face  of  his  best  friend. 
Mary  laughed  when  I  laid  the  old  cup  on 
202 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


a  comparatively  new  saucer  at  my  place. 
There  was  another  laugh  when  I  laid  it 
out  for  customs  inspection  in  the  port  of 
New  York.  I  had  a  set  of  rather  delicate 
after-dinner  coffee  cups.  One  bore  the 
arms  of  Coventry  in  colors;  another  had 
the  seal  of  St.  John's  College,  Oxford;  one 
was  from  Edinburgh  and  another  from 
Paris.  They  looked  aristocratic.  I  laid 
them  out  in  a  row  and  at  the  end  of  the 
row  sat  the  proletarian,  forlorn  and  bat 
tered  —  Anna's  old  tea-cup. 

:<  What  did  you  pay  for  this  ? "  asked 
the  inspector  as  he  touched  it  contemp 
tuously  with  his  official  toe, 

"  Never  mind  what  I  paid  for  it,"  I  re 
plied,  "  it 's  valued  at  a  million  dollars !  " 
The  officer  laughed  and  I  think  the 
other  cups  laughed  also,  but  they  were 
not  contemptuous;  they  were  simply  jeal 
ous. 

Leisurely  I  went  over  the  dresser,  noting 
the  new  chips  and  cracks,  handling  them, 
203 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

maybe  fondling  some  of  them  and  putting 
them  as  I  found  them. 

"  I  '11  jist  take  a  cup  o'  tay,"  Jamie  said, 
"  I  'm  not  feelin'  fine." 

I  had  less  appetite  than  he  had,  and  Mary 
had  less  than  either  of  us.  So  we  sipped 
our  tea  for  awhile  in  silence. 

"  She  did  n't  stay  long  afther  ye  left," 
Jamie  said,  without  looking  up.  Turning 
to  Mary  he  continued,  "  How  long  was  it, 
aanyway,  Mary?" 

"  Jist  a  wee  while." 

"  Aye,  I  know  it  was  n't  long." 

"Did  she  suffer  much?"  I  asked. 

"  She  did  n't  suffer  aany  at  all,"  he  said, 
"she  jist  withered  like  th'  laves  on  th' 
threes." 

"  She  jist  hankered  t'  go,"  Mary  added. 

"  Wan  night  whin  Mary  was  asleep," 
Jamie  continued,  "  she  read  over  again  yer 
letther  —  th'  wan  where  ye  wor  spakin'  so 
much  about  fishin'." 

"  Aye,"  I  said,  "  I  had  just  been  appointed 
204 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


missionary  to  a  place  called  the  Bowery,  in 
New  York,  and  I  wrote  her  that  I  was 
no  longer  her  plowman,  but  her  fisher  of 
men" 

"  Och,  maan,  if  ye  cud  haave  heard  her 
laugh  over  th'  different  kinds  ov  fishes  ye 
wor  catchin' !  Iv'ry  day  for  weeks  she 
read  it  an'  laughed  an'  cried  over  it.  That 
night  she  says  t'  me,  '  Jamie,'  says  she,  '  I 
don't  care  s'  much  fur  fishers  ov  men  as  I 
do  for  th'  plowman.'  'Why?'  says  I. 

"  *  Because,'  says  she,  '  a  gey  good  voice 
an'  nice  clothes  will  catch  men,  an'  wimen 
too,  but  it  takes  brains  t'  plow  up  th'  super 
stitions  ov  th'  ignorant.' 

"  '  There  's  somethin'  in  that,'  says  I. 

"  '  Tell  'im  whin  he  comes,'  says  she,  *  that 
I  put  th'  handles  ov  a  plow  in  his  han's  an' 
he  's  t'  let  go  ov  thim  only  in  death.' 

"  '  I  '11  tell  'm,'  says  I,  '  but  it 's  yerself 

that  '11   be   here    whin   he   comes,'    says    I. 

She  smiled   like   an'   says   she,   '  What   ye 

don't  know,  Jamie,  wud  make  a  pretty  big 

205 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

library.'  '  Aye,'  says  I,  '  I  haave  n't  aany 
doubt  ov  that,  Anna.' ' 

"  There  was  a  loud  knock  at  the  door." 

"  Let  thim  dundther,"  Mary  said.  He 
put  his  hand  behind  his  ear  and  asked 
eagerly : 

"What  is  't?" 

"  Somebody  's   dundtherin'." 

"  Let  thim  go  t'  h  -  — ,"  he  said  angrily. 
"  Th'  tuk  'im  frum  Anna  last  time,  th' 
won't  take  'im  frum  me  an'  you,  Mary." 

Another  and  louder  knock. 

"  It 's  Misthress  Healy,"  came  a  voice. 
Again  his  hand  was  behind  his  ear.  The 
name  was  repeated  to  him. 

"Misthress  Healy,  is  it;  well,  I  don't 
care  a  d — n  if  it  was  Misthress  Toe-y!" 
•  For  a  quarter  of  a  century  my  sister  has 
occupied  my  mother's  chimney-corner,  but 
it  was  vacant  that  night.  She  sat  on  my 
father's  side  of  the  fire.  He  and  I  sat  op 
posite  each  other  at  the  table  —  I  on  the 
same  spot,  on  the  same  stool  where  I  used 
206 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


to  sit  when  her  cup  toward  the  close  of  the 
meal  came  traveling  along  the  edge  of  the 
table  and  where  her  hand  with  a  crust  in 
it  would  sometimes  blindly  grope  for  mine. 

But  she  was  not  there.  In  all  my  life 
I  have  never  seen  a  space  so  empty! 

My  father  was  a  peasant,  with  all  the 
mental  and  physical  characteristics  of  his 
class.  My  sister  is  a  peasant  woman  who 
has  been  cursed  with  the  same  grinding 
poverty  that  cursed  my  mother's  life. 
About  my  mother  there  was  a  subtlety  of 
intellect  and  a  spiritual  quality  that  even  in 
my  ignorance  was  fascinating  to  me.  I 
returned  equipped  to  appreciate  it  and  she 
was  gone.  Gone,  and  a  wide  gulf  lay  be 
tween  those  left  behind,  a  gulf  bridged  by 
the  relation  we  have  to  the  absent  one 
more  than  by  the  relation  we  bore  to  each 
other. 

We  felt  as  keenly  as  others  the  kinship 
of  the  flesh,  but  there  are  kinships  trans- 
cendentally  higher,  nobler  and  of  a  purer 
207 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

nature  than  the  nexus  of  the  flesh.  There 
were  things  to  say  that  had  to  be  left  un 
said.  They  had  not  traveled  that  way. 
The  language  of  my  experience  would  have 
been  a  foreign  tongue  to  them.  She  would 
have  understood. 

"  Wan  night  be  th'  fire  here,"  Jamie 
said,  taking  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth, 
"  she  says  t'  me,  '  Jamie,'  says  she,  '  I  'm 
clane  done,  jist  clane  done,  an'  I  won't  be 
long  here.' 

" '  Och,  don't  spake  s'  downmouth'd, 
Anna/  says  I.  '  Shure  ye  '11  feel  fine  in 
th'  mornin'.' 

"  '  Don't  palaver,'  says  she,  an'  she  lukt 
terrible  serious. 

"  '  My  God,  Anna/  says  I,  '  ye  wud  n't  be 
lavin'  me  alone/  says  I,  '  I  can't  thole  it/ 

"  '  Yer  more  strong/  says  she,  '  an'  ye  '11 
live  till  he  comes  back  —  thin  we  '11  be 
t'gether/  " 

He    stopped    there.     He    could    go    no 
farther  for  several  minutes. 
208 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


"  I  hate  a  maan  that  gowls,  but  — " 

"  Go  on,"  I  said,  "  have  a  good  one  and 
Mary  and  I  will  wash  the  cups  and 
saucers." 

"  D'  ye  know  what  he  wants  t'  help  me 
fur  ?  "  Mary  asked,  with  her  mouth  close 
to  his  ear. 

"  No." 

"  He  wants  t'  dhry  thim  so  he  can  kiss 
her  cup  whin  he  wipes  it!  Kiss  her  cup, 
ye  mind ;  and  right  content  with  that ! " 

"  I  don't  blame  'im,"  said  he,  "  I  'd  kiss 
th'  very  groun'  she  walked  on ! " 

As  we  proceeded  to  wash  the  cups,  Mary 
asked : 

"  Diz  th'  ministhers  in  America  wash 
dishes?" 

"  Some  of  them." 

"What  kind?" 

"My  kind." 

"What  do  th'  others  do?" 

"  The  big  ones  lay  corner-stones  and  the 
little  ones  lay  foundations." 
209 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  Saints  alive,"  she  said,  "  an'  what  do 
th'  hens  do?" 

"They   clock"    (hatch). 

"Pavin'   stones?" 

"  I  did  n't  say  pavin'  stones !  " 

"  Oh,  aye,"  she  laughed  loudly. 

"  Luk  here,"  Jamie  said,  "  I  want  t' 

laugh  too.  Now  what  th'  is 't  yer 

gigglin'  at?" 

I  explained. 

He  smiled  and  said: 

"  Jazus,  bhoy,  that  reminds  me  ov  Anna, 
she  cud  say  more  funny  things  than  aany 
wan  I  iver  know'd." 

"  And  that  reminds  me,"  I  said,  "  that 
the  word  you  have  just  misused  she 
always  pronounced  with  a  caress !  " 

"  Aye,  I  know  rightly,  but  ye  know  I 
mane  no  harm,  don't  ye?" 

"  I  know,  but  you  remember  when  she 
used  that  word  every  letter  in  it  was 
dressed  in  its  best  Sunday  clothes,  was  n't 
it?" 

2IO 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


"  Och,  aye,  an'  I  'd  thravel  twinty 
miles  jist  t'  hear  aany  wan  say  it  like 
Anna!" 

"  Well,  I  have  traveled  tens  of  thousands 
of  miles  and  I  have  heard  the  greatest 
preachers  of  the  age,  but  I  never  heard 
any  one  pronounce  it  so  beautifully!" 

"  But  as  I  was  a-sayin'  bhoy,  I  haave  n't 
had  a  rale  good  laugh  since  she  died ;  haave 
I,  Mary?" 

"  I  haave  n't  naither,"   Mary  said. 

"  Aye,  but  ye  've  had  double  throuble, 
dear." 

"  We  never  let  trouble  rob  us  of  laughter 
when  I  was  here." 

"  Because  whin  ye  wor  here  she  was  here 
too.  In  thim  days  whin  throuble  came 
she  'd  tear  it  t'  pieces  an'  make  fun  ov  aych 
piece,  begorra.  Ye  might  glour  an'  glunch, 
but  ye  'd  haave  t'  laugh  before  th'  finish 
—  shure  ye  wud !  " 

The  neighbors  began  to  knock  again. 
Some  of  the  knocks  were  vocal  and  as  plain 

211 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

as  language.  Some  of  the  more  familiar 
gaped  in  the  window. 

"Hes  he  hed  'is  bath  yit?"  asked 
McGrath,  the  ragman. 

We  opened  the  door  and  in  marched  the 
inhabitants  of  our  vicinity  for  the  second 
"  crack." 

This  right  of  mine  own  people  to  come 
and  go  as  they  pleased  suggested  to  me  the 
thought  that  if  I  wanted  to  have  a  private 
conversation  with  my  father  I  would  have 
to  take  him  to  another  town. 

The  following  day  we  went  to  the 
churchyard  together  —  Jamie  and  I.  Over 
her  grave  he  had  dragged  a  rough  boulder 
and  on  it  in  a  straggling,  unsteady,  amateur 
hand  were  painted  her  initials  and  below 
them  his  own.  He  was  unable  to  speak 
there,  and  maybe  it  was  just  as  well.  I 
knew  everything  he  wanted  to  say.  It  was 
written  on  his  deeply  furrowed  face.  I 
took  his  arm  and  led  him  away. 

Our  next  call  was  at  Willie  Withero's 
212 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


stone-pile.  There,  when  I  remembered 
the  nights  that  I  passed  in  my  new  world 
of  starched  linen,  too  good  to  shoulder  a 
bundle  of  his  old  hammers,  I  was  filled 
with  remorse.  I  uncovered  my  head  and 
in  an  undertone  muttered,  "  God  forgive 
me." 

"  Great  oul  bhoy  was  Willie,"  he  said. 

"  Aye." 

"  Och,  thim  wor  purty  nice  times  whin 
he  'd  come  in  o'  nights  an'  him  an'  Anna 
wud  argie ;  but  they  're  gone,  clane  gone, 
an'  I  '11  soon  be  wi'  thim." 

I  bade  farewell  to  Mary  and  took  him 
to  Belfast  —  for  a  private  talk.  Every 
day  for  a  week  we  went  out  to  the  Cave 
hill  —  to  a  wild  and  lonely  spot  where  I 
had  a  radius  of  a  mile  for  the  sound  of  my 
voice.  The  thing  of  all  things  that  I 
wanted  him  to  know  was  that  in  America 
I  had  been  engaged  in  the  same  fight  with 
poverty  that  they  were  familiar  with  at 
home.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  think  of  a 
213 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

wolf  of  hunger  at  the  door  of  any  home 
beyond  the  sea.  It  was  astounding  to  him 
to  learn  that  around  me  always  there  were 
thousands  of  ragged,  starving  people.  He 
just  gaped  and  exclaimed: 

"It's   quare,    isn't   it?" 

We  sat  on  the  grass  on  the  hillside, 
conscious  each  of  us  that  we  were  saying 
the  things  one  wants  to  say  on  the  edge  of 
the  grave. 

"  She  speyed  I  'd  live  t'  see  ye,"  he  said. 

"  She  speyed  well,"  I  answered. 

"  Th'  night  she  died  somethin'  won- 
therful  happened  t'  me.  I  was  n't  as  deef 
as  I  am  now,  but  I  was  purty  deef.  D'  ye 
know,  that  night  I  cud  hear  th'  aisiest 
whisper  frum  her  lips  —  I  cud  that.  She 
groped  fur  m'  han ;  '  Jamie,'  says  she,  '  it 's 
nearly  over,  dear.' 

"  '  God  love  ye,'  says  I. 

"  '  Aye,'  says  she,  '  if  He  '11  jist  love  me 
as  ye  've  done  it  '11  be  fine.'     Knowin'  what 
a  rough  maan  I  'd  been,  I  cud  n't  thole  it. 
3.14 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


"  '  Th'  road  's  been  gey  rocky  an'  we  've 
made  many  mistakes.' 

"  '  Aye,'  I  said,  '  we  've  barged  (scolded) 
a  lot,  Anna,  but  we  did  n't  mane  it.' 

" '  No,'  says  she,  *  our  crock  ov  love  was 
niver   dhrained.' 

"  I  brot  a  candle  in  an'  stuck  it  in  th' 
sconce  so  's  I  cud  see  'er  face." 

" '  We  might  haave  done  betther/   says 
she,    '  but    sich    a    wee    house,    so    many 
childther  an  so  little  money/ 
'  We  war  i'  hard  up/  says  I. 

" '  We  wor  niver  hard  up  in  love,  wor 
we?' 

"  '  No,   Anna/   says  I,   '  but  love  diz  n't 
boil  th'  kittle/ 

"  '  Wud  ye  rather  haave  a  boilin'  kittle 
than  love  if  ye  had  t'  choose? ' 

"  *  Och,  no,  not  at  all,  ye  know  rightly  I 
wud  n't/ 

"  '  Forby,    Jamie,    we  've    given    Antrim 
more  'n  such  men  as  Lord  Massarene/ 

"'What's  that?'  says  I. 

215 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

"  '  A  maan  that  loves  th'  poorest  craithers 
on  earth  an'  serves  thim.' 

"  She  had  a  gey  good  sleep  afther  that." 

"  *  Jamie,'  says  she  whin  she  awoke,  '  was 
I  ravin'?' 

" '  'Deed  no,  Anna,'  says  I. 

"  *  I  'm  not  ravin'  now,  am  I  ?  ' 

"  '  Acushla,  why  do  ye  ask  sich  a  ques 
tion  ? ' 

"  '  Tell  'im  I  did  n't  like  "  fisher  ov  men  " 
as  well  as  "  th'  plowman."  It 's  aisy  t' 
catch  thim  fish,  it 's  hard  t'  plow  up  ig 
norance  an'  superstition  —  tell  'im  that 
fur  me,  Jamie  ? ' 

"'Aye,  I'll  tell  'im,  dear.' 

"  '  Ye  mind  what  I  say'd  t'  ye  on  th'  road 
t' Antrim,  Jamie?'  That  "love  is  Enough"?' 

"  '  Aye.' 

"  '  I  tell  ye  again  wi'  my  dyin'  breath.' 

"  I   leaned   over   an'   kiss't   'er  an' ;    she 
smiled  at  me.     Ah,  bhoy,  if  ye  could  haave 
seen  that  luk  on  'er  face,  it  was  like  a  pic 
ture  ov  th'  Virgin,  it  was  that. 
216 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


"'Tell  th'  childther  there's  only  wan 
kind  ov  poverty,  Jamie,  an'  that 's  t'  haave 
no  love  in  th'  heart,'  says  she. 

" '  Aye,  I  '11  tell  thim,  Anna,'  says  I." 

He  choked  up.  The  next  thought  that 
suggested  itself  for  expression  failed  of 
utterance.  The  deep  furrows  on  his  face 
grew  deeper.  His  lips  trembled.  When 
he  could  speak,  he  said: 

"  My  God,  bhoy,  we  had  to  beg  a  coffin 
t'  bury  'er  in ! " 

"  If  I  had  died  at  the  same  time,"  I  said, 
"  they  would  have  had  to  do  the  same  for 
me!" 

"How  quare!"  he  said. 

I  persuaded  him  to  accompany  me  to 
one  of  the  largest  churches  in  Belfast.  I 
was  to  preach  there.  That  was  more  than 
he  expected  and  the  joy  of  it  was  over 
powering. 

I  do  not  remember  the  text,  nor  could  I 
give  at  this  distance  of  time  an  outline  of 
the  discourse:  it  was  one  of  those  occa- 
217 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

sions  when  a  man  stands  on  the  borderland 
of  another  world.  I  felt  distinctly  the 
spiritual  guidance  of  an  unseen  hand.  I 
took  her  theme  and  spoke  more  for  her  ap 
proval  than  for  the  approval  of  the  crowd. 

He  could  not  hear,  but  he  listened  with 
his  eyes.  On  the  street,  after  the  service, 
he  became  oblivious  of  time  and  place  and 
people.  He  threw  his  long  lean  arms 
around  my  neck  and  kissed  me  before  a 
crowd.  He  hoped  Anna  was  around 
listening.  I  told  him  she  was  and  he  said 
he  would  like  to  be  "  happed  up  "  beside 
her,  as  he  had  nothing  further  to  hope  for 
in  life. 

In  fear  and  trembling  he  crossed  the 
Channel  with  me.  In  fear  lest  he  should 
die  in  Scotland  and  they  would  not  bury 
him  in  Antrim  churchyard  beside  Anna. 
We  visited  my  brothers  and  sisters  for 
several  days.  Every  day  we  took  long 
walks  along  the  country  roads.  These 
walks  were  full  of  questionings.  Big 
218 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


vital  questions  of  life  and  death  and  im 
mortality.  They  were  quaintly  put: 

"  There 's  a  lot  of  balderdash  about 
another  world,  bhoy.  On  yer  oath  now, 
d'  ye  think  there  is  wan  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"If  there  is  wud  He  keep  me  frum  Anna 
jist  because  I've  been  kinda  rough?" 

"  I  am  sure  He  would  n't !  " 

"  He  wud  n't  be  s'  d — d  niggardly,  wud 
He?" 

"Never!  God  is  love  and  love  doesn't 
work  that  way !  " 

At  the  railway  station  he  was  still  pour 
ing  in  his  questions. 

"  D'  ye  believe  in  prayer  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  Well,  jist  ax  sometimes  that  Anna  an' 
me  be  together,  will  ye  ?  " 

"  Aye." 

A  little  group  of  curious  bystanders 
stood  on  the  platform  watching  the  little 
trembling  old  man  clinging  to  me  as  the 
219 


MY    LADY    OF    THE    CHIMNEY-CORNER 

tendril  of  a  vine  clings  to  the  trunk  of  a 
tree. 

"We  have  just  one  minute,  Father!" 

"  Aye,  aye,  wan  minute  —  my  God,  why 
cud  n't  ye  stay?  " 

"  There  are  so  many  voices  calling  me 
over  the  sea." 

"  Aye,  that 's  thrue." 

He  saw  them  watching  him  and  he  feebly 
dragged  me  away  from  the  crowd.  He 
kissed  me  passionately,  again  and  again, 
on  the  lips.  The  whistle  blew. 

"  All  aboard !  "  the  guard  shouted.  He 
clutched  me  tightly  and  clung  to  me  with 
the  clutch  of  a  drowning  man.  I  had  to 
extricate  myself  and  spring  on  board.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  as  the  train  moved 
out;  despair  and  a  picture  of  death  was  on 
his  face.  His  lips  were  trembling  and  his 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

A   few  months  later  they  lowered  him 
to  rest  beside  my  mother.     I  want  to  go 
220 


THE  EMPTY  CORNER 


back  some  day  and  cover  them  with  a  slab 
of  marble,  on  which  their  names  will  be 
cut,  and  these  words: 

"  Love  is  Enough." 


THE    END 


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